


Catching Hell

by ADeedWithoutaName



Series: Catching Hell [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Demon!Dean, Limp!Sam, M/M, Wincest - Freeform, unrelated wincest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-22
Updated: 2015-08-14
Packaged: 2018-04-10 17:07:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 24
Words: 113,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4400237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ADeedWithoutaName/pseuds/ADeedWithoutaName
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam Winchester is, perhaps, the greatest asset to the hunting community. His research, advice, and insight has reached countless hunters and solved innumerable mysteries. His life is solitary, but useful. That changes, however, with the delivery of a captured Knight of Hell who calls himself Dean.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> This was the story I wrote for this year's J2 Big Bang. I'll be posting about one chapter per day here.

_Wendigos are pretty rare, compared to some other monsters. This is probably due to their origins: a wendigo is what a person turns into after eating human flesh. No one really seems to know the specifics of this process - how much do you have to eat? How many times? Do the personality or genetics of the person eating the flesh factor in? - but that isn't important, in the long run. As far as I know, no one's ever been curious enough about it to actually perform an experiment. All you need to know is now to kill them, and how not to be killed by them._

_Luckily, wendigos aren't all that hard to take out. There are no special weapons or complicated ceremonies; all you need is fire. The trick, though is actually managing to light it up. Wendigos are superhumanly strong and fast. They can see in the dark, they're constantly hungry, and they have a set of massive, razor-sharp claws. They can kill a hunter with years of experience in a matter of seconds, or at least cripple him. And it's difficult to kill a monster with most of your leg missing._

\- Wendigos and Other Native American Monsters, _Sam Winchester_

* * *

Sam woke up shivering. Despite the blankets that were piled on top of the covers of his queen-sized bed, and the space heater that was humming in the corner, he was freezing, the chill of a pine forest in November sunk deep into him. He stayed where he was until he could be sure that he really was looking at a bookshelf and a bedside table rather than a pair of hulking, clawed figures, and that he was smelling warm wood and bleach instead of rotting meat, then he heaved himself up into a sitting position with a groan. His leg hurt badly; he was cramping heavily, which didn't surprise him. He dragged one of the thick blankets up and wrapped it around his shoulders, trying to ward off the nonexistent cold (he wasn't sure quite yet that he was really feeling the warmth of his bedroom instead of it). He reached underneath the bedcovers and found his left calf.

He grunted, digging his fingertips through the sweatpants that he was wearing and into the muscle beneath. It twitched under his hand, and he closed his eyes, gritting his teeth. It was going to be a bad day. He could already tell.

He pushed the covers and blankets back after a few minutes of massaging, when the sharp pain had receded to the point where he could stop thinking about it. He swung his legs over the edge of the mattress and stood, grunting again and grabbing for the solid wood of his bedside table as his left leg flat-out refused to take his weight. His long hair tumbled into his eyes in sleepy tangles as he swore and grabbed his thigh. Which didn't hurt, but whatever - it was connected to the part that did.

"Five years," Sam said through gritted teeth. "You've worked just fine for five damn years. Don't do this today."

He straightened up, slowly, and tried to stand on his left leg again. It sent a bolt of pain up it, but it held, at least. He limped out of the room, letting out a slow breath and raking a hand through his hair.

Sam lived, primarily, in three rooms. The largest was the one that he'd just entered, which served multiple purposes as his kitchen, office, workout room, and living area. Not to mention that it held his front door, his back one, and the doors to all of the cells. At the moment, he was using the kitchen. He dropped two pieces of whole grain bread (the bag proclaimed that it was two days past its expiration date, but there wasn't any mold on it, so he assumed that it was okay) into the toaster, then slumped into the one chair at his tiny kitchen table. It took him about two minutes to realize that the toaster wasn't actually plugged in. He muttered a curse before heaving himself to his feet for the second time that morning, plugging the damn thing in, and getting the coffeemaker going, too, while he was at it. He'd been right; it was turning into a bad day already.

He ate, considered taking one or two of the pills in the small bottle in the very back of his medicine cabinet, then rejected the idea because he could walk. He took a longer shower than he probably should have, hoping that the hot water would help his leg. He dressed himself in jeans and a T-shirt, then took his silver knife out of the top drawer of his bedside table and stuck it through his belt. He fed his "tenants," which was a gorefest, but at least it was one that he was used to. All of his routine chores taken care of, Sam sat down at his desk, and began to sketch out banshees.

His hope was that he'd have the rest of the day to work on this, since the deadline for another book or at least a pamphlet on malevolent spirits was fast approaching. But he wasn't exactly optimistic about that. Sam wasn't superstitious, despite what he did for a living and how he'd been raised, but sometimes, he could just  _tell_  when a day wasn't going to work out in his favor. He hadn't been wrong yet.

And he wasn't wrong today. He hadn't even completed his first sketch when the phone on his desk rang.

It was a shiny silver wireless with an LED screen and entirely too many buttons, a newer model that had replaced his old-fashioned, cream-colored one. He regarded it suspiciously for a second, then picked it up and pressed it to his ear.

"I'm kind of in the middle of something," he said by way of a greeting. The list of people who contacted him on a regular basis was pretty short, and everybody on it knew him well enough not to be offended.

"There is no way that whatever pansy-ass field guide you're writing now is more important than this, Winchester," the caller said.

"Oh." Sam recognized the voice. He sort of wished he didn't. "Hi, Gordon." He dropped his pencil in order to rub the area between his eyes, squeezing them shut. "Thought you were somebody else."

"Yeah, obviously," Gordon said, making no effort to conceal the scorn in his voice. "Your demon cell empty?"

Sam glanced behind him, at the room that he was sitting directly in front of. The door stood open, revealing a small, spare room with a Circle of Solomon etched into its cement floor. "Uh. Yeah."

"Well, do whatever you gotta do to get it ready, because we're bringing you a strong one," Gordon instructed.

Sam blinked. He'd been given many different types of demons over the five years that he'd been...whatever he was (a researcher?). Black eyes, red eyes, white eyes, even yellow eyes. Daevas, acheries, hellhounds. Old, young. Male and female. He'd honestly figured that he'd interrogated, experimented on, and figured out how to kill every subspecies of demon there was.

"A...new one?" he asked uncertainly. "I've done strong demons before."

"You think I don't know that?" Gordon asked. Well, demanded. He didn't give Sam a chance to answer. "You might not've heard about it, holed up in that little cabin of yours, but we got a situation out here on the front lines. We're at war - Hell's pretty much cracked open, and we got new breeds of demon out the ass." Sam heard the rustling of fabric and a clink of metal against metal. Other people talked in the background, but their voices were too faint for him to make out what they were saying. "Anyway, long story short, I've been running with a few other hunters for a while now, and we just caught a Knight."

Sam could practically hear the capital letter. He scrambled through his memories, and even though he found exactly what he was looking for, he blankly asked, "A Knight?"

"A goddamn  _Knight_  of  _Hell_ ," Gordon emphasized. "You wrote about 'em in your book, didn't you? Or am I thinking of another crippled hermit who likes to spend all his free time with monsters?"

Sam felt his teeth grit, and his hand tightened into a fist, pressing against his face. He forced the anger down, though. Gordon was a contact. He might not be a friend, or even someone Sam could stand for more than five minutes, but he was still a contact, and he needed to stay on good terms with him.

"Knights of Hell are extinct," Sam said, voice matter-of-fact. "The last one went outta commission in the fifties. Captured by a priest, disappeared after that."

"I  _know_ ," Gordon said, impatient enough to start sounding a little angry. "I read your book. Thought it was useless as hell to include information on something that'd gone extinct fifty years ago, but I s'pose that's no longer the case now, seeing as you were wrong."

"Okay." Sam leaned back in his chair. It was quickly becoming apparent that nothing was going to convince Gordon that whatever he had wasn't a Knight of Hell, so he'd have to humor him. "Say you did catch a Knight. You know how dangerous they are, even for demons - why haven't you exorcised it? Or killed it?"

"We  _tried_ ," Gordon answered, and this time, Sam could hear frustration in his voice. "Damn it, of course we tried that first, boy. We didn't know what we had in the beginning - just figured that we'd snared an old one, one of their leaders. Wouldn't tell us anything no matter what we did, so I put Kubrik on exorcism duty and headed back out. When I came back, Kubrik'd used up every ritual he knew of, and the damn thing was still around. Just laughing his ass off at all of us. So, naturally, I tried to shut him up."

"What'd you use?" Sam asked. If Gordon had tried to kill this demon with a weapon that didn't work on his kind, then that might be the whole problem right there.

"One of your replicas." Sam's eyes widened. He got to his feet, despite loud and angry protests from his leg, and returned to his bedroom. He opened the closet door and swept his small, bland wardrobe aside with one arm in order to look at the large assortment of weapons on the back wall. On racks, in drawers, hanging from pegs. He was looking for one small dagger in particular, and when he found it, he picked it up and stared down at the runes carved into the blade.

"One of the ones that I made of the demon knife?" he asked. He'd made almost a hundred over the course of two and a half years, after the original had been anonymously delivered to his doorstep and he'd finally figured out what it was. Only eleven worked. The rest had all been flawed in some way, but those eleven had worked perfectly since their creation.

"Yes. One of those."

"Are you su - "

"Of course I'm sure," Gordon snapped. "Used it on another demon earlier that same day, and it worked just fine. Took this one just under the breastbone, and while I'm pretty sure he didn't  _like_ it, it definitely didn't kill him, either."

Sam sat down on his bed. His leg gave out as he was lowering himself, so he hit the mattress more heavily than he'd intended. He was still holding the knife. "Are...are you sure that it's a demon?"

"Responds to iron, salt, holy water - the works," Gordon said. "Has black eyes, too. They popped out when I stabbed him. Damn thing spit on me after I'd twisted the knife a couple times, trying to get it to work, and said that I wasn't gonna be able to kill him because he was the last Knight of Hell." His voice turned scornful again. "But maybe I'm misinterpreting all of this. Maybe the son of a bitch ain't a demon after all. What d'you think, Mr. Expert?"

Sam blew out a very slow breath.  _Don't get pissed._  This was his job. "Where is he?"

"Iron cage, heavy on the sigils and runes," Gordon said. "We've got a bunch of other stuff on him, too - handcuffs, chains, a collar. He's trussed up like a turkey. Not exactly  _docile_ , but he's not going anywhere we don't want him to."

"You'd better bring him up here, then," Sam said, coming to a quick decision that he hoped was right. He just wasn't sure what else to do with something that really sounded like a genuine Knight of Hell.

"Attaboy," Gordon said. It didn't sound much like praise, coming from him. "Finally." Sam heard a shuffling sound, like he was moving to hang the phone up, but then he spoke again. "Winchester, if I were you, I'd touch your demon cell up some. This thing's the strongest I've ever dealt with, and you've gotta know that's saying something."

"Right," Sam said. Something occurred to him, and before Gordon could hang up for real, he asked him, "What condition's the vessel in, Gordon?"

"Demon's still alive," Gordon replied.

"What condition is he in?" Sam repeated. There was a pause.

"He made me kinda angry," Gordon said, finally. "That should really tell you all you need to know."

Then he hung up. He'd been right - that  _had_  told Sam all he needed to know, mostly because he'd had dealings with Gordon and other hunters of his ilk before. He seethed quietly into the handset for a moment. A demon (especially one as rare as a Knight) was no use to him at all if it was too mangled to respond to interrogation. And Gordon, the bastard, knew that.

But he couldn't afford to waste time being angry. Or energy, for that matter. If he wasn't ready to restrain a Knight when Gordon arrived, then there would be some very literal Hell to pay. Sam forced himself to his feet, which his leg didn't like at all, and glanced at the custom-made cane leaning against his bedside table. He rejected it with a snort and a shake of his head. The cane was a very last resort, and a humiliating one at that.

He dropped the phone back into its dock, then stepped into a pair of broken-in, unlaced boots beside his back door. They were at least as old as his career was, but they did an impeccable job of protecting his feet from the sharp sticks and rocks that covered the short distance between his cabin and the shed out back. The shed contained the extra large chest freezer that held all the less-than-savory food of his houseguests, weapons and spell ingredients too large or volatile to be kept in his home, dry storage for pencils and flour and things like that. And, perhaps most importantly, it contained everything he'd need to transform a run-of-the-mill demonic holding pen into GTMO for things that crawled out of Hell.

It was a big shed. Sam sometimes speculated that he'd be happier living in it than in the cabin.

He grabbed red spray paint, clear acrylic, and a heavy bag of rock salt on his first trip out. The spray paint went onto the ceiling and walls, in the form of a devil's trap and warding sigils from six different cultures. They all worked, and Sam figured he needed as many layers of protection as he could get from this thing. The acrylic went over the paint, so that water wouldn't be able to damage or blur the symbols. The entire bag of rock salt went all along the edges of the Circle of Solomon, and then Sam went back to the shed.

The heavy wooden door came off of its hinges, and a new iron one went on. It was composed of thick iron bars with more sigils worked into them, really more of a gate than a door. It was a bitch to switch them out by himself, and he was all but dragging his leg by the end of it, but he was able to spend most of the next three hours sitting as he burned hundreds of tiny but powerful runes into the wood of the doorframe. He laid on his back, staring up at the ceiling and breathing hard, after pouring a mixture of salt and iron filings into the crack between the jamb and the first floorboard. Anything that could force its way past that probably deserved to get out - but he was pretty satisfied that the Knight would never leave his new, improved demon cell alive.

Sam knew he should have gone back to his book, with its looming deadline, but now that all the pressing physical labor was done, he knew that he wouldn't be able to focus until that demon was safely within the large and ornate cage that he'd constructed for it. He was just too nervous, and with his leg like it was, he couldn't even pace to relieve some of the tension. He sighed heavily, then draped a large hand over his aching eyes.

There was nothing he could do but lie here, and wait for Gordon and his men to bring him a furious and likely mutilated Knight of Hell.


	2. Chapter Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I FINALLY FIGURED OUT HOW TO WORK THIS SITE DURR.
> 
> Seriously. It was tough, because I'm stupid, but now I know how to keep my original formatting, so everything should go smoother with future chapters/stories.

_I guess I understand the urge. I mean, on some level. One of those things killed my dad and pretty much ruined my leg - I've got just about as much right to be pissed as anybody. And I suppose that it's better to take that kind of anger, the kind I feel every once in a while, out on a monster instead of a human being. The first one makes you a hunter, and the second one just makes you a sadist._

_They're disgusting. Some of them are, and I get that pretty damn well, since I've probably talked to more than anyone else out there. They talk about what babies taste like, how they made somebody scream when they slowly pulled them apart, how much they love sleeping in a nest lined with human skin. It takes everything I've got to stay professional with those ones._

_They're not all like that, though. I can count on one hand the number of_ really decent _monsters I've met, but they do exist. They don't deserve to be hunted or hurt or killed. And...I don't know. I guess that my point here is that if you carve up one really bad monster and you like it...where do you draw the line?_

-  _Personal journal of Sam Winchester_

* * *

A loud and heavy knocking on the front door startled Sam's stomach up into his mouth His spine snapped itself ramrod straight, and every muscle in his body tensed, setting off a firestorm in the leg that had been mercifully free of pain for the last hour or so. He groaned, blinking stickily as he realized that, somehow, he had dozed off. It would have surprised him a lot more than it did if his hunting days hadn't taught him that his body would eventually take what it wanted no matter how he felt.

He pushed himself up out of the chair that he'd moved into when the floor had started to hurt his back. The rest must've been good for his leg, because he didn't need to grab his desk to help himself to his feet, and it took his weight the first time. Despite the pain, he was barely limping at all when he walked over to the door and yanked it open, finally getting the pounding to stop.

Gordon stood on the other side, hand still raised. He was an imposing, solidly-built black man. He didn't quite surpass Sam in height, but not many people did. He eyed him critically as he folded his arms over his chest.

"See you cleaned up for company," he said.

Sam just blinked, his brain still partially mired in sleep. He wasn't exactly overdressed, in his worn, baggy clothes and bare feet, and he probably didn't look too clean, since he hadn't shaved in a couple of days. He hadn't cut his hair in a while, either. Or brushed it. Or really done anything with it besides slapping shampoo onto it every morning and then rinsing it off. He might actually deserve the disapproving look that Gordon was giving him right now.

"Do you have the Knight?" he asked. Gordon snorted.

"What d'you think?" He pushed past Sam, into his house. His boots were muddy (Sam's front walkway was packed dirt, and it was the foggy/frosty/rainy season), but he didn't take them off, or even scrape them clean. Sam rolled his eyes and muttered, "Come on in," under his breath. Gordon glanced at him over his shoulder. "You say something?"

"No." Sam followed Gordon over to his new and improved demon cell, which the older man was examining with a raised eyebrow. He gripped one of the bars on the gate and shook it. Everything held, which sent a flicker of relief through Sam. He definitely wasn't a carpenter. "D'you think it'll hold him?"

"I think you did a pretty good job," Gordon admitted, grudgingly. "Think I'm gonna leave some of my gear with you, though. The handcuffs, the collar - I've got a chair I think you could use, too. I'm gonna have to…" There was a loud clanking of metal behind them, from the doorway. They turned in unison (much to Sam's annoyance). "Ah. Well, there he is."

Sam had left the door open, and two men who must be members of Gordon's party took advantage of that, supporting a third man between them. At first, Sam thought that he was unconscious, because his head was bowed so low and he wasn't moving his feet - then he realized that he was awake, unmistakably open eyes glittering in his face, and was just refusing to walk to make things difficult for the men on either side of him. He was weighed down with silver manacles on his wrists, a heavy metal ring around his neck, and thick chains that pinned his arms against his upper body and hobbled him. A bolt of freezing lightning ran up Sam's spine, and every hair on his body prickled as the realization hit home - he was in the same room as a Knight of Hell.

He wasn't entirely sure what he'd been expecting from the demon's vessel. Maybe an older man, strong, dark, and very imposing. Someone a legion of demons would feel good about following. But those vague, watery expectations definitely weren't met. The Knight was powerfully built, sure, and tall (still not as tall as Sam), but he fell short of "dark" and "imposing." He was a blonde, first of all. Pretty dirty, but still fair-haired - and fair-skinned, too, which translated to a boatload of freckles scattered over every piece of bare flesh. His legs were bowed slightly, which Sam could tell even though he wasn't walking on them at the moment, and he had a startlingly clear set of bright green eyes.

He was attractive. Symmetrical, at least. Sam felt suddenly uncomfortable with that realization.

He was also badly hurt. Sam took clinical stock of all of his injuries as Gordon opened the door to the cell and the two men - both heavily armed, Sam noted - dragged the demon past him. Blood was matted and crusted into his close-cropped hair, probably from the mess of ugly bruises and cuts that puffed out the left side of his face. His neck and throat were mottled with more bruises. Blood covered the front of the T-shirt that he was wearing, mostly dry but still sticky and black in a few spots. Fingers on both of his hands were twisted and misshapen and obviously broken. His right knee was hideously swollen, enough to make his jeans painfully tight around it, and Sam felt an involuntary pang of sympathy.

Gordon's men, average hunters Sam didn't bother paying much attention to, dragged the demon into the cell. Another appeared in the doorway, wrestling with a large, solid, antique-looking wooden chair, covered with runes and scarred leather straps. And what had to be bloodstains. Sam followed that guy through the doorway and into the Circle of Solomon, Gordon right beside him. The chair went into the very center of the room, and the demon was unceremoniously dumped into it. Sam hugged himself as the three hunters went to work strapping him in, then shot an accusing look at Gordon.

"Why'd you bother with the cage?" he asked, struggling to keep anger out of his voice. Gordon did not respond well to being yelled at, which Sam knew from tiring experience. "You just could've drug him behind whatever you came up here in. Probably would have done less damage."

Gordon squinted at Sam, who glared back and refused to give so much as an inch. He might not be "out on the front lines," as Gordon had put it, but he was good at his job, this was his house, and he wasn't going to praise someone for bringing him a damaged subject.

"He wouldn't talk, he wouldn't die, and he wouldn't leave," Gordon said, after a short-lived staring contest that Sam assumed he'd won. "What you're looking at is just the end results of us trying to make him do one of those things."

Sam's only response to that was another accusing look. He knew how to interrogate - how to torture, if all his other tactics failed. Nothing he'd put a knife to had ever come out looking like the demon in front of him did.

"It's a demon," Gordon continued. Somehow, he managed not to sound defensive. "Why hell're you so damn protective of these things, Winchester? You think he doesn't deserve to have a broken leg, or a black eye? He's a Knight of Hell. We don't know what he's done." Gordon crossed the Circle, testing the straps that now held the demon to the chair with two fingers. Sam followed. The demon didn't react, though that might have been because of the two sawed-offs and one knife pointed at him - Sam recognized the knife as one of those that he'd made himself. He looked at the other hunters, trying to judge if they'd had anything to do with the wounds littering the Knight's body, as Gordon added, "But I assume that's one of those things that you're gonna try and get outta him."

"It's not about whether or not he  _deserves_  it," Sam said. He pulled his eyes away from the three nameless hunters that Gordon had brought with him, knowing that he wouldn't get any help from them. Not if they were working with Gordon, taking orders from him. "It's about me being able to get anything useful from him. I'm guessing that he hasn't been too chatty since you beat him into the ground."

Gordon, apparently satisfied that his Knight wasn't going to break the straps anytime soon, turned to Sam with an unreadable expression on his face.

"And what about his vessel?" Sam continued. He waved a hand at the laconic Knight, the gesture a little more aggressive than he'd actually wanted it to be. "There's a human being in there. However mad you were, you took it out on that guy. Not the demon. Not really."

This time, Gordon laughed, the sound low and derisive. It seemed to grate against his ears.

"You think you can save whoever's in there?" he asked with a grin. "You can't exorcise this demon. Not even you know a ritual that can get rid of him." He shook his head, then turned away, leaving the cell. Sam followed him again, and heard boots on cement as the other hunters did the same. "And even if you did - well, how d'you know that there'd be anything worth saving once the demon was gone?" Sam took hold of the gate, standing outside of it as Gordon's posse filed out, and never took his eyes off of the older man. "Knights are  _old_. Cain and Abel old. You said so in your book, didn't you?" Sam lifted his chin a little instead of answering. "Imagine that that thing's been wearing him since then. No human soul could make it through that. Not intact, at least."

Sam very firmly put his back to Gordon as he locked the gate, sealing the demon into his cell. He - it - didn't seem to mind, but Sam had the uncomfortable feeling that he was being watched. He turned to Gordon again when the gate was secure, one hand still on the bars.

"Can't hurt to try," he pointed out, then cleared his throat. "You got a name for me?"

Gordon chuckled. "A name. Yeah, you always gotta have a name, don't you?" His amusement was clear as he said, "It never really came up. Maybe you can just refer to him as 'Sir Knight,' huh? Show him the respect he deserves?"

Sam exhaled explosively through his nose, then glanced up at the ceiling. He crossed his main room, doing his absolute best not to limp, and reached his still-open front door. He put a hand on the knob and squeezed hard enough to make the metal creak a little.

"You brought me the Knight," he said. He sounded civil, and counted it as a personal miracle. "Or something that you think is a Knight, anyway. Do you need anything else?"

Gordon grinned and shook his head, as one of the other hunters who had come with him stretched, groaning, and headed outside. He didn't so much as glance at Sam, but honestly, Sam couldn't care less about that. He was focused on Gordon, who was easily the biggest threat to him and what he did here.

"Nope." He walked past Sam, the other two hunters following him out. "Be sure and call me as soon as you figure out anything about him, all right?"

Sam nodded stiffly in answer, and the second that the room was once again empty of anyone but him, he closed and locked the door. He was pretty tempted to slam it, but he felt like he'd sent enough messages for one day. He blew out a deep breath that he must have been holding, then reached up and tangled his fingers in his long hair, taking large handfuls of it. He'd never thought of himself as an introvert, but face-to-face social interactions were taking more and more out of him every time that somebody visited him. Maybe it was because he spent most of his time almost completely alone up here. But, then again, he would've been willing to bet that his current exhaustion came mostly from the fact that it'd been Gordon visiting him.

He let his hands drop, and stared at the door as an engine, probably that of a van, started up. He didn't move until about a minute after it faded away, half-expecting another loud, obnoxious knock on his door, even though he knew it wouldn't come. He finally turned around and made his way back to his desk, where he dropped into his chair.

Sam started to reach for his pencil and the sketches that he'd been working on earlier, hesitated on the way, then gave up with a slight huff of defeat. The supposed Knight was here now. He didn't have to stress about its arrival. He should have been able to go back to work - in theory. But he could tell that any effort he expended right now would be completely useless before he ever even touched pencil to paper. He was too worn out and too strung out; both at the same time, if that was even possible.

He turned slightly in his chair, and found a pair of green eyes fixed right on him, one partially obscured by the swollen and purpled flesh around it. He couldn't read anything in them, and if it weren't for the shine of moisture, he'd think they belonged to a corpse. But, then again, that was what a demon was, wasn't it? A dead person, a soul that'd had all of its humanity tortured out of it. He assumed that the thing staring at him right now was the same, even though he actually didn't know too much about how Knights were born as opposed to ordinary demons.

The staring was beginning to make him a little uncomfortable, even if it was just because he knew what was behind those eyes. He almost got up to close the door, then realized that it was already closed - the demon was staring at him through the bars. With the gate in place, there was no solid wood to block his gaze. Sam groaned softly.

"I've made a huge mistake," he muttered to himself.

The demon moved when he spoke. Not very much; it was just a little twitch of his head, but it was enough to make it clear that he'd heard Sam's voice, even if he hadn't caught exactly what he'd said. Sam stood up, swallowing. He tore his eyes away from the demon as he gathered up everything that he'd been working on or with lately. Everything he might need for work for at least the next few days: his banshee notes and sketches, pencils, pens, extra paper, his laptop, the phone, and the wireless router, which was a top-of-the-line high-speed model that he'd dropped about four hundred dollars on. He carried two loads into his bedroom, and the second one was just the stupidly-expensive router, because replacing the damn thing after breaking it was pretty high on his list of things that he didn't want to do anytime soon.

He knew the demon was watching him the entire time. Sam could practically feel his gaze burning a hole through his bedroom door after he'd closed it, but he did his best to ignore him, focusing instead on plugging in, setting up, and organizing everything he'd brought in. It wasn't easy. His bedroom was tiny, and even though the window over his bed might have helped it to look bigger, it certainly didn't give him any extra space.

Once he'd found at least a temporary place for everything, he left his new, much more awkward office and returned to his main room. He'd used his leg way too much today, and it was definitely letting him know, waves of weakening pain thudding their dull way up to the base of his spine. He needed to sit down, or at least go easy on it. But he forced himself not to limp at all when he crossed back into the demon's line of sight and went to his chair.

He was going to regret this, he realized as he lowered himself into it. That little display of pseudo-strength had likely cost him his mobility for tomorrow, and he had the sneaking suspicion that it had been worthless. But, hey, at least his inner alpha male Neanderthal was satisfied.

Sam sat in his chair. The demon stared blankly at him. His leg throbbed. It was a routine that he was content to let continue for a few minutes, just so that he could get his breath back and let the pain ebb. Then he started taking stock of the demon's injuries all over again. The bruised face and neck, the broken fingers, the damaged knee. There were probably a dozen more wounds that he couldn't see because of his clothes and his skin. He still couldn't tell where all that blood on his shirt had come from - oh. Wait. Yes, he could. Gordon had stabbed him in the solar plexus and then twisted the knife. Now that Sam looked closer, he could see a slender rip in the demon's blood-stiffened shirt. Anyone would bleed profusely from that.

But none of these bruises and cuts and broken bones belonged to the demon. They probably didn't even cause him all that much pain. The one who'd really been hurt was the man he was wearing, and Sam would have to try to remember that.

His eyes flicked towards the bathroom, where he kept a large and thorough first aid kit. One of his methods was to establish a repertoire with the things that were delivered to him, to show them kindness and at least treat them decently. He had learned a long time ago that demons weren't nearly as appreciative of that as, say, werewolves were, but he was really caring for the vessel. Diminishing whatever pain the demon was in was just a side effect of that.

Sam was about to get to his feet when he remembered what Gordon had said to him while he was here. About the demon's vessel. Sam really doubted that the guy he was looking at right now dated all the way back to Biblical times, but...how long, really, could a human mind and soul last with a demon rubbing up against them and controlling their body? Five years? Ten? Definitely no more than that, and even then, there'd be deep and lasting effects.

That brought him to the points that Gordon had made about the fact that it  _was_  a demon, and that they didn't know what it or he had done. Sam knew plenty of people - decent people - who would think that simply the act of leading a demonic army against humanity (and it kind of sounded like that was what he had been doing when Gordon had nabbed him) was more than enough to condemn him to suffering and death.

_It's a demon._

Sam closed his eyes. He remembered being twelve, staring at a girl only a few years older than him where she crouched in a devil's trap with black eyes and dirty hair, the ancient book in his hands trembling slightly. His father's hand came down heavily on his shoulder and his voice rumbled through the murk: "These things killed your mother."

When Sam opened his eyes again, the demon's had gone black.

He got to his feet, making his leg hold him, and limped to his bedroom instead of the bathroom. He closed the door behind him with a quiet  _click_ , shielding himself from the demon and its blood and bruises, and just focused on taking slow, deep breaths for a long time.


	3. Chapter Three

_When you need information from a monster, especially when time is running out and that information could save lives, your natural instinct is going to be to torture them. Smash up their fingers, yank their fangs out, cut them open. I know. I've been there. And torture's great for putting some very literal pressure on things, but I'm sure that a lot of us know from experience that it doesn't always work like it's supposed to. Nothing likes pain, and a lot of your informants will tell you whatever they think you want to hear just to get you to stop hurting them. In order to avoid that, you need to have more tactics up your sleeve than hooking a vampire's nipples up to a car battery._

_I'm sure you've all heard the expression "You catch more flies with honey than with vinegar." It's true in about a million different situations, and this is one of them. Treat your informant with respect, no matter what they are, or what they've done. Don't hit them, don't tie them up with barbed wire. Try to coax the information you want out of them instead of beating it out. And if you've got a long-term interrogation going on, then feed the monster, let it keep itself clean, give it somewhere to sleep, if it needs sleep. It's still your prisoner, but you can treat it with common decency. Nine times out of ten, you'll get better results than with torture - I promise._

_Of course, every once in a while, you're gonna run into something that common decency just doesn't work on. Every demon I've ever come across has fallen into this category. When you have something that is truly, fundamentally evil, something that doesn't appreciate any breed of kindness, then torture is really your only option._

-  _"_ _Interrogation: Article One," posted on website of Sam Winchester_

* * *

Sam dropped his clipboard and pencil with a groan, raising his hands and mashing the heels of them into his aching eye sockets. His legs were folded, but he slowly straightened them out, stretching the twisted, partial muscle of his left one. He leaned back against the pillows of his bed, grimacing and arching his back before dropping his hands. He blinked blearily up at the ceiling as the multicolored static of pressure on his eyes faded away. He spread his arms and let his hands dangle off the edges of the mattress. His right one ached.

He was no natural artist, so the process of sketching out monsters was even more painstaking for him than it would have been if he'd actually been good at drawing. Add a couple hours of that to a couple hours of furiously scribbling down notes and organizing all of his ideas on paper, and you got a pretty sore wrist. And a sore back, and a sore everything else, because he was doing all of his work sitting on his bed instead of in his more familiar desk chair. His bare feet brushed against his laptop, and he forced himself to sit up, close it, and put it safely on the floor before laying back down to rest. Bone-deep weariness was beginning to set in, despite the fact that it was just barely past noon, but at least he'd made some real progress on his book. He'd decided that it was definitely going to be a book; a pamphlet couldn't do banshees the justice they deserved.

Sam closed his eyes and blew out a deep breath, feeling blood start to pool in the tips of his fingers as his hands hung off the bed. He let them swell for a few minutes, as he just focused on breathing and letting himself decompress, then pulled them up and laced them together behind his head. He opened his eyes, looked around, and chewed lightly on his lower lip.

His exhaustion didn't have everything to do with his writing. He'd reorganized his bookcase. Pulled up the rugs that covered his worn wooden floor and mopped it clean. Rubbed down and field-stripped every weapon in his room that he could. Hell, he'd even shaved and (sort of) taken care of his hair. It wasn't about doing things that he'd been putting off for a while - it was about keeping busy, killing time. Cleaning and grooming and working instead of doing what he was probably supposed to be doing.

Sam turned his head to the side, and caught sight of the two plates, stacked neatly, on his nightstand. Breakfast (scrambled egg whites and a piece of toast) and lunch (a very simple turkey sandwich). He hadn't spent much time out in the kitchen making either, and they hadn't taken long to eat. He should probably take the dishes back out. Wash them and put them away.

It took him about fifteen minutes to work up the energy and then the will to do that. Rubbing a hand over his face and up into his hair, he slowly sat up, swayed slightly as blood rushed out of his head, then grabbed the plates. He nudged the door open and shuffled out into his main room. At the sink, as he scrubbed the plates clean with what might have been too much force, his back was to his desk. And the cell behind it, the one that held Gordon's Knight. Eyes bored into the area directly between his shoulder blades. He tried to ignore them.

The sensation of being stared at grew heavier and heavier, and Sam could hardly stand it as he put the plates, part of a chipped and mismatched set, back in the cabinet. His hands clenched themselves into fists as soon as there was nothing in them, and he put them on the faded laminate of his counter and leaned on them. He bowed his head so that his hair fell forward and hunched his shoulders, like a turtle trying to draw into itself and hide from the steady, unblinking gaze of a predator.

He squeezed his eyes shut and sucked down a deep breath, then opened them and made an effort to release all of his tension when he exhaled. He straightened up and turned around, steeling himself as he crossed the room with a painful limp that he couldn't hope to hide - the result of what he'd forced his leg into yesterday. If he'd had any doubt about being stared at, it was gone as soon as he looked at the demon, and found his eyes fixed again. They had gone back to being green, and the swelling around the one looked worse than yesterday.

"Guess I can't put it off forever, can I?" he muttered, not specifically talking to the demon as he reached the gate and put a hand on one of the bars. He didn't get an answer, but he hadn't wanted or expected on. His hand dipped into his pocket, pulling out a well-used keyring, and he shook loose a shiny new key to unlock the iron door. As it swung open, he stepped in, and pushed it closed behind him.

He was tempted to stay by the door, but he knew that that wouldn't work for this. He reluctantly left it behind, stepping over the salt that he'd laid down and feeling the grooves of the Circle of Solomon on his bare feet, as he walked across it towards the demon. The cement of the floor was cold enough to make him wish that he'd put shoes on before coming in here. He threw a long shadow onto the demon and the wall behind it, because the only light in the tiny cell came through the door from the main room; there weren't any windows or light bulbs in here.

He stopped a couple of feet from the demon and folded his arms over his chest, looking down at him. The demon had raised his head slightly in order to keep staring at him. His expression was still placid and emotionless, which struck about a seven on Sam's creep scale.

"I'm Sam," Sam said. He unfolded his arms and stuffed his hands into the pockets of his jeans. Shaking was kind of outta the question, with the demon in handcuffs. "Sam Winchester. This is...my house. I've lived here for five years." And he hadn't left the property in all that time.

The demon didn't reply, besides blinking very, very slowly.

"D'you have a name?" Sam asked, blinking rapidly despite himself. He forcibly put a stop to it. "Something that you want me to call you? 'Cause I'm gonna end up calling you something, and it might be better if you pick it yourself."

Still no response. Sam was slowly becoming aware that the demon didn't exactly smell good: blood and sulfur and something that had to be whiskey, or some other kind of hard liquor. He'd probably picked up that last one from Gordon and those other men.

"I'm sorry about the chains," Sam tried. "And the handcuffs, and stuff. It's just until I know that I can trust you not to kill me when I come in here."

Nothing. He probably could have had a more productive conversation with one of his guns. Sam shook his head, feeling just a little bit of irritation well up in him.

"Refusing to talk to me isn't gonna do anything for you," he told the demon bluntly. "Whatever you're trying to do right now isn't gonna work for you. I can guarantee it. You won't lose a thing by answering my questions."

He got a reaction this time - maybe it had been the hint of anger in his voice that had done it. The demon cocked his head, by a couple of degrees, to the side, and the gesture, along with sending his collar slipping to the side on his clavicle, revealed a lot more of his bruised throat. Sam's sense of triumph over getting a reaction out of him quickly turned to shock as he saw it, and he pulled his hands out of his pockets.

The flesh was black. Not necrotic - no, Sam was pretty sure that he would have smelled that, given how close he was standing. It was just so badly bruised that it had gone past purple. It was swollen in the shape of a man's large, strong fingers, where somebody had grabbed him by the throat and squeezed as hard as they could. So hard, in fact, that the straight, rounded column of his windpipe had been crushed into a pattern that made Sam's stomach lurch. The damage was so severe that he couldn't even pick out the shape of the demon's Adam's apple. There were tears, cuts from fingernails and just from pressure.

Sam realized that he had been lifting a hand in order to gently touch the hideous wound in front of him, and quickly snatched it back before he could get within biting distance. He'd been bitten before, and it wasn't fun. He swallowed, his own throat aching in what had to be a shadow of the pain that the demon and his vessel were going through right now, and realized.

"You can't talk," he said softly, shaking his head. And there was another reaction: the demon arched one dirty blond eyebrow. "Uh…" He turned, looking at the door, then glanced back at the Knight. He was about to tell him to stay where he was, then realized that he couldn't go anywhere right now and felt an embarrassed blush run across his cheekbones. Maybe it was too dark in here for the demon to see this weakness. "I'll be right back," he settled on, before hurrying out of the room. He didn't bother to lock the gate for this short trip. The demon wasn't going anywhere.

He grabbed his first-aid kit out of the bathroom, from underneath the sink. Carrying that in one hand and a washcloth that he'd dunked in warm water in the other, he returned to the cell. The door opened soundlessly with a bump of his hip, and he walked back to the spot that he'd been standing in before, setting down the bulky white kit. He kept the washcloth. Realizing that the demon was now actually eyeing him, sizing him up, he spread his hands in the universal "I mean you no harm" gesture.

"I'm not gonna hurt you," Sam promised, taking another step forward and closing almost all of the distance that remained between the two of them. "Not like...not like those other guys did. I wanna try and see if I can help you out here. Make you feel better." If his vessel was still alive, then his wounds would heal, with time and the proper care. Sam really hoped that that was the case. A Knight of Hell who couldn't talk wasn't worth all that much to him.

The demon's lips, so full they almost looked feminine, twitched. But he made no objection, verbal or otherwise, then Sam leaned towards him and placed a hesitant hand on the unbruised side of his head. The skin was warm underneath Sam's touch, the kind of warmth that only came from pumping blood. The man he was wearing was undoubtedly still alive. He filed that realization away for future use as he gently tipped the demon's head back and began to dab blood and dirt off of his throat with the washcloth.

He was clad he'd decided to clean the wound like that instead of just with one of the antiseptic wipes in the first-aid kit, because the cloth came away filthy when he was done. Sam grimaced down at what looked like blood and ash and dust on the cloth.

"How is this not infected?" he muttered to the demon, who might as well not have heard him.

Sam pulled gauze, medical tape, and several different kinds of ointment out of the kit, kneeling in order to dig through it. It was hell on his leg, but he bit back a groan of pain, pouring his attention into finding the medical supplies that he needed. The demon watched him with what he decided to believe was a shred of interest in his eyes. He stood back up and adjusted the collar, a loose ring of metal around the demon's neck, where it rested on his collarbones, in order to smear ointment on and press thick gauze pads to the bruises and the swelling and the cuts. He frowned down at it as he wrapped more gauze and medical tape around the demon's neck to hold the pads in place. He should really take that off. Despite all the unfamiliar runes that covered it and the rings that the chains clipped to, he wasn't sure what purpose it served.

"It should start feeling better pretty soon," he said. "If, y'know, it was hurting you before." He knew that he hadn't been able to talk because of what had happened to his throat, but he had no way to know if it'd actually caused the demon any pain. Maybe not, since he hadn't flinched or anything when Sam touched the wounds. "There's some numbing stuff in the antibiotic cream, I think."

He finished up with the bandages, large knuckles brushing against the stubble that lined the demon's jaw. He'd learned, through observation, that hair didn't grow during demonic possession. This stubble had been here since the Knight had taken this man as a vessel. Sam wondered if he'd been grabbed before he had a chance to shave, or if he'd just thought that the scruffy look was one that he could pull off. Which he could. Sam doubted there were any look that this guy, whoever he was, couldn't pull off.

Thinking about the vessel this much should really get Sam pissed at the demon, but he just couldn't summon up any anger. Maybe he was tired from everything that he'd done today. His leg had decided that it was just about done with the position that he was in, aching and weakening, but he kept leaning in. This close, he could study the puffy bruises on the demon's face in detail, his broken fingers, his swollen knee. The fear that had kept him out of his cell for the better part of the day slowly dissolved, and he recognized what replaced it: sympathy.

"I'm sorry," Sam murmured, making eye contact. "For what they did to you."

The demon's mouth moved. For a second, Sam thought that he was going to try to speak. But then he lunged forward, so quick that Sam almost didn't have time to react, and his jaws were open. Sam jerked back, violently enough to very nearly overbalance, and the demon's teeth snapped together right where his cheek had been. There was more than enough force there to shear through flesh.

Sam was still close to him. Close enough to lose something if he didn't move it. So, in other words, too close, and he knew that he'd fall flat on his ass if he tried to move any further right now. He was awash in adrenalin, which his leg didn't like. It wouldn't take his weight. So he reacted, to keep his face in one piece, and grabbed the demon's head with both hands. He forced it back, the heel of one hand digging into his bruises. He felt him flinch against it. He hadn't held him there for even a second when something warm and wet hit his forehead and spattered over his face.

Sam immediately clamped his eyes shut to protect them. He had to let go, and when he straightened up, he staggered, and just as he'd known would happen, his leg gave like a wet strip of paper. On the floor, he wiped his eyes clean, and looked at his hand when he opened them. His shadow fell on his fingers, but he could still tell that they were covered with glossy scarlet. Disgust crawled down his spine as he realized what he had all over his face.

_Damn thing spit on me,_  Gordon had said. Sam wondered if he'd spit blood at him, too.

He lifted his gaze to the demon, whose eyes had gone black while he was freak out. Sam's chest heaved with deep breaths, and as he watched, the demon's mouth slowly curved up into a smile. There was blood on his lips, and a drop rolled out of the corner of his mouth and hung, trembling, from the edge of his chin.

Sam wiped at his face with his clean hand. Then he scrambled to his feet, snatched for the first-aid kit, limped to the door, and locked it with slippery fingers as he left.


	4. Chapter Four

_What I do is completely necessary, and I know that. I remind myself of it every night, usually right before I go to sleep, and I get reminded of it every time that I bring it up to Charlie or Garth. So you'd think that I would've learned by now. And I have. On an intellectual level, I understand that what I'm doing here is the best possible way for us to learn. To get the upper hand. To do what we're supposed to do, and save lives, and make the world a safer place._

_But emotionally, I hate doing this. Interviewing them and observing them is okay, but experimenting on them, trying to figure out what hurts them. I don't like that. It's useful, of course. I mean, I'm the one who stumbled upon the thing that harpies have with avocados, and that's been really useful. But I hate the noises they make. I hate looking at their wounds and knowing that I'm the one that inflicted them. And I really hate cutting them open after I've killed them._

_A lot of them come to me with a rap sheet. The hunters that catch them tell me exactly how many people they've eaten and children they've orphaned and women they've widowed. So, I should enjoy hurting them and making them pay for what they've done, probably. But I don't. Maybe I'm just too soft to do this. It'll probably drive me completely crazy in a few more years._

-  _Personal journal of Sam Winchester_

* * *

After scrubbing his face until the skin was pink and felt raw to the touch, Sam put the boots by the door on and walked out to the shed. It was feeding time, which meant more blood, but at least it wouldn't end up on his face this time. He hoped.

He propped open the lid of the chest freezer and fished through it, taking out two Tupperware containers. One held blood and the other a brain and all its accompanying fluid, both from a pig - he had a deal with a perplexed butcher in the nearest town. He carried both in, dumped them into pots on the stove with a little bit of water to melt on low heat on the stove, and cleaned the containers out. The stink of blood and organs had already started to waft through the cabin when he put them away dry. A healthy amount of mentholatum, taken from a rapidly-diminishing jar and smeared under his nose, kept him from tossing his cookies all over the kitchen. He'd done this at least once a day for months now, and worse things before it. He'd never gotten used to the smell.

On his way to open the windows, Sam put his foot in a crust of dried mud. He looked down to see Gordon's dirty bootprints from yesterday, a trail of them leading from the front door to the demon's cell, and so he scrubbed those away while the blood and the brain melted. He was a little surprised that he hadn't taken care of the mess already, with everything else he'd cleaned up this morning to put off talking to the demon.

The contents of the pots on the stove were ready by the time that he was done with the floor: completely melted, and nearly warm enough to suggest that they were fresh from a living body. The blood went into a plastic squeeze bottle of the type athletes used for water and sports drinks when they were working out, and the brain and spinal fluid went into a large bowl. He turned the oven off and put the pots in the sink before carrying the bowl into the cell directly next to the demon's.

The door was locked and bolted, but Sam hadn't taken many other precautions, since the resident wasn't immaterial and couldn't escape from a locked room. He opened the door with one hand and balanced the bowl with the other, and as he stepped in, he announced, "Vaughn. Dinner."

The cell was a pretty sparse room, like all the others. The only furniture had, originally, been a cot. Now there was a TV tray acting as a nightstand, a bright lamp that Sam hadn't bothered to secure, and a collage of comic book covers and pages on one of the bare walls. Books that hadn't yet been dismembered were stacked neatly beneath the cot, which was covered by decent sheets, a thick comforter, and a whole pile of pillows and cushions.

There was a boy lounging on said cot. Well, a teenager. Sam estimated that, physically, he was about fifteen, but chronologically, he had no clue - the lifecycle of Vaughn's kind was radically different from that of humans.

Vaughn glanced up from the comic book that he was reading at the sound of his name, then swung his bare feet off of the cot and stood up. He didn't move until the door was closed again and Sam was in the middle of the room. Then he stepped forward to take the bowl from him.

"I smelled it when you were warming it up," he commented. "But you usually feed us later on odd days. Like...actually dinnertime."

Sam smiled, and was sure that it looked more than a little weak. "Yeah, usually. Guess I'm just a little distracted today." Breakfast on even days, dinner on odd ones. But he was only a couple of hours off, and he didn't have many clocks in the house. "Are you complaining?"

Vaughn shook his head, then lowered it to the bowl, closing his eyes and taking a deep sniff. He recoiled slightly and declared, "Pig."

"Yeah, just like the last hundred times," Sam agreed with a smirk. "I could start mixing it up a little. Cow. Goat. Sheep."

Vaughn shook his head again with a long-suffering sigh. "No. Pig's definitely closest to...y'know." He shrugged, lifting the bowl to his mouth and sipping at the clear liquid. The brain bobbed in it and Sam couldn't keep himself from making a face. "Unless you can get me some monkey brains." He licked his lips.

"I don't think there's anybody butchering monkeys around here," Sam replied. "You're just gonna have to be satisfied with pigs."

"It might be easier if you fed me more often," Vaughn said, widening his eyes innocently as he slurped from the bowl again. Sam leaned against the door with a snort.

"I  _should_  be feeding you once a week," he pointed out. "Or less. Most wraiths don't eat nearly as regularly as you do." He folded his arms across his chest. "I'm probably spoiling you. A brain a day."

Vaughn rolled his eyes. They were a bright, intelligent blue, providing a stark contrast to the fiery red hair that he wore long and the freckles scattered across his milk-white skin. He had a lot more than the demon did.

"You could at least put it back in the container when it's warm," Vaughn said. "Like a plastic skull. I really love punching the hole, sucking it out through that."

"Have you ever done that before?" Sam asked, raising an eyebrow.

Vaughn scowled. "No."

"Well, I'd rather not have you put holes in all my containers," Sam said. He shrugged, then continued. "But maybe we can do that once or twice. I kinda wanna see how you use your spike - especially because you don't have any experience with it."

"You are so creepy sometimes, Sam," Vaughn complained, going back to his brain juice. He spoke between sips. "I think you're cool, and then the weird monster researcher comes out."

_"_ _I'm_  creepy?" Sam asked with a laugh. "I'm not the one talking about how much I love sucking brains out through holes that I drill in people's heads." He pushed off the door, turned around, and opened it. "You know the drill. Leftovers in the bowl, bowl by the door. I'll come get it when I'm done with Nadia."

"How's your leg?" Vaughn asked before he could leave. Sam hesitated, then shrugged.

"It hurts," he admitted. "I was stupid with it yesterday."

"Really?" Vaughn grinned. "I can't see you being stupid with anything."

Sam smiled a little despite himself. "Thanks, Vaughn."

Once the door was locked again, he grabbed the plastic bottle on the counter and headed for the cell next to Vaughn's. There were eyes on him. He was sure that there had been eyes on him every single time he'd been in the demon's line of sight, but he wasn't going to give him the satisfaction of acknowledging that by looking at him. He'd already allowed himself to be scared and spit on by the thing. That was more than enough power over him.

He pulled the keys out of his pocket, picked out the one that he needed, and lifted it to the lock on the door of this new cell. He hesitated, though, and then sighed heavily and rolled his eyes. He'd caught a sweet and familiar scent. One that set off more alarm bells in his brain than messages of pleasure - but only because he'd had practice fighting off its effect.

"Get away from the door, Nadia," he said firmly. "On the cot or against the back wall. Those are the rules." And she knew them, having been with him for almost six months.

There was a rich, feminine chuckle from the other side of the door, and then there was the scuff of shoes. Sam used the key and pushed the door open, stepping into the room with the bottle of blood in his hand, and he narrowed his eyes at Nadia as he became very aware of the silver knife in his belt. She smiled warmly back.

Sam didn't know her last name (he wasn't even sure that she had one), but her dark, almond-shaped eyes and cappuccino-colored skin spoke very obviously of Middle Eastern ancestry. Her hair was woven back into a loose braid. Sam had given her a few generic outfits, shapeless sweaters and comfortable pants and tennis shoes, and she was wearing one of those right now, but the flawless shape of her body could still be seen underneath it.

The intricate tribal tattoos that could be seen creeping onto her hands, wrapping around her neck, and framing her lovely heart-shaped face marked her as inhuman, and the deep red tint to them displayed exactly which subspecies of djinn she belonged to.

She stayed where she was as Sam closed the door, set the bottle on the ground, and stepped back, but he kept a wary eye on her anyway. She sighed (which did interesting things to her chest; an effect that Sam was sure she knew about) as she picked up the bottle.

"I bet you aren't this careful with the wraith," she said. She'd been born in the United States, so there was no trace of an accent. Just a pout.

"He doesn't have venom that he can get into my bloodstream just by touching me," Sam replied, staying flat against the door as Nadia inspected the bottle. She smiled again.

"You'd enjoy it," she said. Sam snorted. She wrapped full, plum-colored lips around the bottle's nozzle and took a long pull from it, eyes on him the whole time, then continued when she took it out of her mouth. "You'll need to test exactly what that venom does to humans, you know. You'll need to see it for yourself if you want to write an accurate article. Your fantasy...the pleasure."

"Yeah, I'm still trying to figure out how to do that," Sam said. "Without you sucking me dry while I'm out."

Nadia took the bottle into her mouth again instead of answering, smiling around it. Sam gave her a few minutes, knowing that it was fine for her to feed once a day just so long as she got all of it, then asked, "Done?" She nodded and lobbed the bottle to him, underhanded. "Okay. Down on the cot."

With a long-suffering sigh, Nadia sat. Her cot, much like Vaughn's, had been furnished with upscale bedding to keep her comfortable and warm, but the rest of her cell was empty except for a battery-operated light screwed to the ceiling. She hadn't asked for anything, so maybe she didn't get bored. Sam sometimes wondered if she could use her venom on herself.

"So." Once Nadia was sitting on her cot, she leaned forward, interest sparkling in her dark eyes. "Who's the new guy?"

"What're you talking about?" Sam asked, opening the door. With the position that Nadia was in right now, it would take her just a few seconds longer to get up and lunge at him.

"Don't play dumb. The prince," Nadia replied, a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. "The  _demon_  prince. Black power incarnate."

"He's a Knight. Not a prince." Sam stepped out, eager to be gone. Nadia was pretty high up on his list of people he did not want to discuss Gordon's Knight with.

"You won't be able to keep him contained," Nadia called as he closed and then locked the door. "Not with strength like his. I can feel it."

Bottle in hand, Sam shook off the brief conversation and retrieved the bowl from Vaughn's room (he was too absorbed by the book he was reading, this time, to even acknowledge him) and carried both to the sink. A small, dried-out husk of brain, dark and shriveled from having all of its moisture sucked out, was rattling around in the bottom of the bowl. It got pitched into the trash pile out back. Everything else he scrubbed with bleach: the bowl, the bottle, the counters, the stove, the sink. It got rid of the smell. It was the only thing he'd found that did.

When he was finished with all of that, his leg was on the verge of declaring mutiny, so he slumped into a kitchen chair with a sigh. Tipping his head back, closing his eyes, and very firmly ignoring the demon's ever-present stare, Sam allowed himself fifteen minutes of rest. Then he was hauling his body up, needing to get back into it. He'd transferred all of his notes, laid out everything he had so far, caught the book up with his knowledge. There was nothing else to do on that front now. Which meant that he needed to pay a visit to the banshee.

Banshees were fae creatures. Spirits that had never been human and had ties to the Unseelie Court (a nasty bunch in general, as far as Sam and his research were concerned). So that meant that iron hurt them, and holy water, and a few other, more volatile things that Sam didn't really have access to. Grabbing a small plastic grocery bag from a pile in one of the cabinets, Sam tossed in a few iron weights, a canister of rock salt, and one of the small flasks of holy water that he kept handy in the kitchen. He heard a slight noise behind him, and turned with his figurative hackles rising.

The demon had shifted slightly in his chair. Very slightly. If Sam hadn't been so intent on ignoring him that he couldn't help but memorize his position, he probably wouldn't even have noticed it. His face was still impassive, but his gaze hd shifted - his eyes were now aimed at the bag in Sam's hand rather than Sam himself. He must've assumed that all that stuff was for him.

"Not today," Sam muttered under his breath, turning to his bedroom. No way was he going into the demon cell again so soon.

He only took one thing from his bedroom: a pair of noise-cancelling headphones. They were several grades above the ones cops used on shooting ranges. They didn't just muffle sounds; they stopped them entirely. Sam wouldn't be bothered by a rocket taking off while he had these things on. And, more importantly, the scream of a banshee couldn't get through them. With the headphones in place and his bag in his hand, he headed for the cell with the best soundproofing, which was separated from Nadia's by an empty one.

Most of the monsters that ended up in his cells were caught by hunters and delivered to him for the advancement of the greater good. The banshee, however, had been donated. One Angus McCloud had been exceedingly interested in getting rid of her, with a newborn child in his house, and the people he had gone to directed him to see Sam. She had followed the McClouds since before the dawn of written history in the British Isles. They were a Scottish-Irish family, very old, and from what Angus had told Sam, the banshee wasn't the only strange thing about them. Their women had a long history of suspected witchcraft, and a more recent ancestor had apparently sold his soul to the Devil (though Angus had no idea what he'd gotten in return). Sam had written all of that down, just in case it was relevant.

He opened the door and stepped into the room, closing it behind him. He adjusted the headphones, making sure they weren't loose. Whoever heard the cry of a banshee would die within a matter of days. It was unclear if they were the cause or just the warning of the death, and there was a lot of lore that said that only blood relatives of the families they followed could hear their shrieks, but Sam really preferred to err on the side of caution.

The room was dominated by a perfect circle of smooth, weather-worn stones, each one roughly the size of a grapefruit, that Sam had had brought over from Ireland. A young woman knelt in the center, her back to Sam and the door. She had a small, slender build, hair so pale it was almost white in a loose braid that crossed her shoulder, and and skin that made Sam think of white tissue paper. She was dressed in a simple grey gown that looked like it was made of wool. Her head was bowed, and she didn't react to Sam's entrance.

He slowly and carefully lowered himself into a sitting position on the concrete, with a grunt that he could feel, but not hear. Two small notepads and two sharpened pencils had been set in the corner. He picked up one of each and lobbed them into the circle. The woman turned slightly when they landed next to her, giving Sam a glimpse of her upturned nose and pink lips. Her hair hid everything else. He scribbled a message on his own pad, then showed it to her:  _Ready to get started, Elspeth?_

She turned completely around, reading what he had written. Her bangs obscured her eyes. Slowly, she got to her feet, and Sam sighed, putting the notepad down. He knew what was coming even before she started to change.

Her feet rose from the floor, dangling limply in the air. Her dress withered, becoming bloodstained silver rags. Her hair tore itself free from the braid and whipped in a spastic cloud around her head, losing what little color it had had to begin with. It also revealed her eyes, or, rather, lack of them - she had raw, empty sockets. Her face became gaunt, her skin gray, and her toothless mouth dropped open as an eerie glow that reminded Sam of pictures he'd seen of swamp gas surrounded her. She began to wail, thin, flat chest heaving with the effort of it, but, of course, Sam didn't hear a thing.

His heartbeat pounded slowly in his ears as he reached for the notepad again. He wrote out a message, one that he'd jotted down several times before in other sessions:  _I can't hear you. Nobody can hear you. This isn't doing you any good._

If the banshee read it (and Sam knew she could, despite her lack of eyes), she paid no attention to it. She just kept screaming in vain, fingers curled into claws, tipped by long, jagged yellow fingernails that he knew she'd take to his eyes if he crossed the circle. He let out another sigh, and tried one last time.

_You know what will happen if you don't cooperate._

The banshee didn't close her mouth. In fact, she hurled herself against the invisible barrier that kept her from Sam, biting and clawing at it as she screamed, even though she had to know that it was useless. Sam felt his lips automatically thin out into a narrow line as he reached for the bag that he'd brought with him. He drew out one of the iron weights, a heavy, cow bell-shaped thing that rested neatly in the palm of his hand.

"Guess we're gonna do this the hard way, huh, Elspeth?" he asked, though he didn't hear himself speak.

* * *

You could not, as Sam had so recently learned, win over a banshee in the same way as you could a wraith or a djinn. As spirits, they didn't need to eat, and they couldn't be provided with any creature comforts that might soften them up, such as a comfortable bed or entertainment. Sam had tried civility, respect. Familiarity, too, by calling the banshee Elspeth, which was a fairly traditional Scottish name (according to the internet). None of it had worked.

That left him with only one option. He was exhausted when he left her cell two hours later, and his leg might as well have been a pipe cleaner, for all the strength that it seemed to have. He'd gotten a lot of information, almost ten pages' worth of notes, but watching the banshee flinch and shy away from the iron, salt, and holy water that he tossed into her circle wasn't his idea of a good time. And it definitely had made her like him any more. She'd been prostrate on the ground, moaning, while he was using various household tools to get what he could out of the circle, after he was finished for the day.

He needed to eat. He didn't have much of an appetite right now, but he knew that he needed food after the kind of day that he'd had, so he dumped two cans of condensed chicken noodle soup into a pot and set it to heating up on the stove. As the smell of it filled the room, he dragged his leg around to lose all the windows that he'd opened earlier. It got cold once the sun went down. Hence the space heater and multiple blankets in his bedroom.

The soup wasn't done yet, so Sam collapsed onto his desk chair. His noise-cancelling headphones, he realized, were still on - weird how he got used to the complete silence after a while. He pulled them off, grimacing at the sudden influx of little noises, and replaced them with a different set of headphones. Ones that played music.

He dug through the drawers of his desk, which were cluttered by necessity because they were so full. He found his Walkman, and grabbed a CD case at random, loading its contents as he plugged the headphones in. All of his music had been downloaded onto his laptop a long time ago, but it was in his room, and he didn't feel like walking that far right now. He hit play, and Bach flooded his ears.

Sam didn't know how long he listened, slumping low in his chair and tilting his head back and focusing on nothing more than his breathing. These headphones didn't block out background noise, so he took them off when he heard the soup start loudly bubbling. Turning the Walkman off and setting it aside, he happened to glance at the demon cell, and wasn't surprised to see its occupant looking at him.

Something had changed, though. His head was tilted to the side again, as if he were confused, and he blinked at him as he got up to get his soup off of the stove. His eyes were green, and they didn't change.


	5. Chapter Five

_I'm sure that I don't need to preach to you about the importance of sleep when it comes to human beings. If your childhood was even slightly less weird than mine was, then you heard it from parents, teachers, doctors, coaches - every authority figure out there with a reason to be interested in your health. You don't wanna hear it again. You don't need to hear it again. I'm actually not sure why I wrote this article, because odds are that none of you are going to click on it._

_Maybe I've just got too much time on my hands. So, hey, here goes._

_Adolescents need about ten hours of sleep each night. Adults need eight. The average hunter gets five - if he feels really good about the place that he's sleeping in. And then he gets up and puts himself and, more often than not, about half a dozen other people, most of them civilians, in a life-or-death situation. What kind of effect do you think exhaustion will have on you when you're tracking a very old and very craft nest of vampires through a maze of dark aqueducts? Performing a complicated spell to seal away a wrathful god? Drawing information about missing children from a stubborn troll? Adrenaline is a hell of a hormone, but I could tell you about thirty different stories that prove it only goes so far._

_Bottom line is that you need to sleep. Every night. For as long as you can. I don't care how many years of hunting you have under your belt or how dire the situation is: you need to rest, to give your mind time to reset and your body time to heal itself. You can't go for three days straight on coffee and whiskey. If you do, you're going to make mistakes, you're going to miss things, and you're going to get yourself and a whole bunch of other people killed. All because you were too stubborn to take a nap._

-  _"_ _Sleep: What You Should be Doing," posted on website of Sam Winchester_

* * *

_CRASH!_

Sam was woken from a light, fitful sleep that he could swear he'd just barely slipped into by the sound of metal and wood hitting cement, with roughly two hundred pounds of force behind it. He blinked the dry, achy gumminess of exhaustion out of his heavy-lidded eyes, then groaned into the pillow that his head was resting on and dragged the covers of his bed up over his ears. They felt like they weighed a million pounds, and his whole body ached.

Another ten minutes. That was all he needed. Just another ten minutes, and he'd be fine for the rest of the day. But sleep was being a dick about coming back to him this morning, and even if it hadn't, a steady symphony of rattling and banging noises had started up. Drilling into his head with all the precision and none of the aesthetic of a surgeon. Sam could have sobbed.

But he didn't. He couldn't. That kind of weakness wasn't allowed, at his age and in his line of work. He threw off the heavy covers and sat up, then sucked in a gasp when his leg abruptly cramped up. Sometimes, he was sure that it had a personality and a mind of its own, and that mind was a finicky one. It didn't like it when it didn't get enough sleep, enough rest, and he guessed that he couldn't blame it. He didn't like that, either.

Just like him, though, his leg was going to have to suck it up and deal with yet another day after a night that'd been anything but peaceful. That was why Sam walked on it, despite the pain and the weakness, as he left his bedroom after turning off his space heater. He almost put his foot through his dormant laptop when he got out of bed, and had to grab onto the wall when he stumbled to avoid it. His hip bumped his nightstand and sent a plastic glass full of lukewarm water tumbling to the floor and soaking into his rug. He groaned softly as he rubbed at his stinging, blurry eyes, then staggered out into the cabin's main room. God, he was out of it. He needed coffee.

As soon as the coffeemaker was ticking and bubbling away, Sam stood in the middle of the room, blinking past what felt like grains of pepper. He pushed his hands up through the mess that the night had made of his hair and yawned so widely the tendons of his jaw creaked. Slowly, he started to put his thoughts, as swollen and unappealing as the huge gray slugs that always came out after it rained, in order.

It was an odd day. That meant that he didn't need to feed Nadia and Vaughn until tonight, which was both a relief and a little troubling. He'd almost forgotten that they needed dinner on the last odd day and had had to scramble to get everything ready right before he went to bed - and he hadn't been nearly as tired then. He'd have to make a real effort not to forget.

Sam couldn't face Elspeth today. She was insanely dangerous, and he couldn't afford to screw up with her because he hadn't gotten enough sleep to think straight. He could put the headphones on wrong and be dead by tonight because he got an earful of her cry. And even if her screaming wasn't actually deadly, he could knock one of the stones of her circle out of place when he threw a weight at her and free her to claw his face off. She was not an option today. Just as she hadn't been for the last three days or so.

That just left the demon. Sam dropped his hands and let them dangle, knowing what he'd find before he glanced over his shoulder and through the bars of the iron gate: the same thing he'd found every morning, without fail, since the day after the Knight had spit at Sam.

He wasn't disappointed. The demon had tipped his chair over and was lying on his side, head resting on the floor and eyes staring ahead. They were green. He was rattling the chains that he could (those on his arms, the ones between the bracelets of his handcuffs) tirelessly, incessantly, and loudly. He hadn't stopped since Sam had gotten up, and Sam was in serious danger of getting used to the racket that he was making.

"Okay," Sam said. His voice, rough with lack of sleep, was drowned out by the chains, but the demon's eyes darted over to him anyway. He blinked, and they went black. "I'm just about sick of you."

But he hadn't even taken a full step towards the demon cell when there was a knock on the door. He turned and squinted at the battered, water-stained calendar by the door, glancing down from the picture of a red golden retriever, past MAY in block letters, and the square that indicated the nineteenth. He thought it was the nineteenth. It'd better be, because it'd taken a red pen to the nineteenth and used it to write and circle  _Delivery._

The chains must have kept him from heating Garth's car pulling up. Sam made an effort to smooth the fog of hair around his head away from his face, trying to look less insane, as he padded barefoot over to the door. He willfully ignored the demon as he unlocked the door and yanked it open."

"Hey-oh - oooh…" Sam was initially greeted by Garth's smiling face, but the happy expression quickly changed to one of concern as soon as he got a good look at him. "Somebody's grumpy."

"I didn't sleep well," Sam replied.

"Well, I wouldn't say so. I've seen lakes smaller than those circles under your eyes," Garth said with a frown, leaning in so that he could scrutinize Sam's face. Sam resisted the urge to lean back. "But I guess I can understand what they're doing there, if  _that_  was going on all night." Obviously talking about the rattling, he leaned around Sam, trying to see what was making it.

"Off and on," Sam said with a nod. He waited for a moment, awkwardly, then began, "Do you have - "

"Oh! Right, right...yeah, I've got all your stuff," Garth said, sticking his thumbs in the belt loops of his jeans and nodding emphatically. "The brains, and the blood…"

Sam waited again, and when Garth didn't go on, he cleared his throat. "So, d'you have any of  _my_  - "

" _Of course_  I have your food and stuff too, Sam," Garth interrupted with a chuckle, rolling his eyes. "All the essentials." On the word "essentials," he reached up and tapped Sam on the nose with an index finger and a smile.

Sam blinked down at Garth, slowly. On a good day, Garth was a pick me up, a welcome and fun change in his repetitive routine. He liked hanging out with him, talking about what was going on in the world outside his cabin and basking in his quirkiness. Vaughn was decent enough company, but he was a teenager. And a wraith, though that didn't matter all that much, since it wasn't like he was dangerous. Garth was his friend. A peer.

In his current state, though, he couldn't find him anything but annoying.  _Really_  annoying.

Garth seemed to wilt a little, as if he'd picked up on what Sam was feeling. Which he might have. He was freakishly tuned in to other people's emotions, and if Sam hadn't already tested him, he'd think that he was some sort of weak psychic - an empath or a telepath.

"I'll go get everything in," he said, hopping off of Sam's front porch (backwards) and turning around.

"Lemme help you," Sam said, following him. Dried mud crunched beneath his bare feet. It hadn't rained since the day before Gordon's visit. "It's my stuff."

Reaching the open back door of Garth's car, Sam took the handles of several plastic bags into his hands and lifted them out. Garth grabbed for a scarred plastic cooler of the sort that you'd take on a fishing trip. Hauling it out with a groan, he staggered under the weight, and rapidly nodded his thanks when Sam reached out a hand to steady him.

"That butcher down there thinks you're crazy," Garth told him.

"Dr. Rochester?" Sam asked, raising an eyebrow. "I only asked him for chloroform that one - "

"No, no, no, the  _real_  butcher," Garth said, shaking his head. He nodded down to the cooler. "The one you get these pig parts from."

"Oh." Sam would have blushed, if he weren't so tired. "I...don't really care all that much."

"Yeah, I sorta figured," Garth said with a grin. They headed inside. "So, what's making that rattling sound?"

"Knight of Hell," Sam replied, putting his good foot on the first step of porch and heaving himself and the bags up with a grunt of effort.

Garth snorted behind him, and Sam could practically see him grinning. "No such thing."

"Yeah?" Sam asked, stepping inside and carrying the bags to his kitchenette. "Maybe you should tell him that." He jerked his head towards the demon cell. The rattling hadn't stopped. Or even slowed down. "You know where the brains go, right?"

"Yep," Garth said distractedly, craning his neck to try and get a glimpse of the demon as he carried the cooler towards the back door.

"You forgot the Tupperware, Garth," Sam reminded, going back outside. He carried in the rest of the groceries while Garth took care of Nadia and Vaughn's food. They were, for the most part, still in the plastic bags that they'd been put in at the store, but Garth had placed all the cold things in a Styrofoam cooler with bags of ice. Sam appreciated that.

Garth came back in as Sam was putting everything away. He leaned against the counter, nodded to the demon cell, and commented, "He doesn't look so tough. I mean, I wouldn't wanna wrestle him or anything, but he's not really…" He squeezed at the air in front of him. " _Knight of Hell_  material."

Sam paused, glancing at Garth with a jar of creamy peanut butter in one hand. "That's partly because he's got more restraints on him than Hannibal Lecter. And no matter how loud he rattles them, he's not getting out." He put the peanut butter up. "How much do I owe you?"

"Oh, Sam." Garth waved a hand at him with a benevolent smile. "You know you don't owe me anything."

"I'm not doing this today, Garth," Sam replied. He closed the cabinet and rested his forehead against it, shutting his eyes.

Garth sighed. "Well, okay. If you insist. But tell you what." He leaned in to murmur directly in Sam's ear. "If you let me eat here, I'll take fifty dollars off."

Sam opened his eyes and looked at Garth without moving. Then he pushed off of the cabinet with a sigh of his own, straightening up and turning towards the coffeemaker. "Fine. I'll get the coffee - it should be ready by now."

Garth was a little guy. He would have been small next to Sam even if Sam had been a foot shorter. He was sort of mousy, too, with his brown hair and bright eyes, and shockingly big nose. But Sam had never found anybody who could smile bigger than he did, or more genuinely.

Garth ended up cooking. Sam let him, since he could probably burn cold cereal right now. He pulled on jeans while Garth made pancakes - he'd wanted bacon, too, but Sam didn't have any bacon, and the thought of eating something that came from a pig made his stomach lurch.

They ate outside on the porch to escape the rattling. Sam didn't have any furniture out there, so they just sat on the weathered boards with their backs up against the house and their plates on their laps. Sam's pancakes were gone within a matter of minutes. It'd been a long time since he'd had pancakes for breakfast, and Garth wasn't a bad cook.

"So," Garth began, mouth full. He swallowed, then continued. "Why's your Knight laying on his side in there?"

Sam had been resting, sitting with his head tipped back against the wall and his eyes closed, but he opened them and looked at Garth when he started talking. "Well, first of all, he's not 'my' Knight," he said. "If anything, he's Gordon's Knight. Gordon caught him."

Garth made a face. Sam shared the sentiment, though he didn't say anything about it.

"And second of all, he tipped himself over during the night," he continued. "It seems like it might be his favorite thing to do. I need to figure out how to bolt his chair to the floor."

"Are you just gonna leave him there?" Garth asked with a frown.

"No." Sam sighed. "I was gonna go in there and put him upright, but then I got distracted."

It took Garth a couple of seconds to get it. When he did, his eyes widened.  _"Oh."_  He hastily stood up, handing his empty plate and fork to Sam, who took much longer to get to his feet. "Well. I'll get out of your hair. So you can...sit your demon back up."

"Lemme pay you first," Sam replied. Garth must have finally gotten it, because he let Sam dig out his checkbook. He repaid him for the groceries, giving him the amount he claimed he'd spent (though he suspected he shaved about a hundred dollars off instead of the fifty he'd promised) and the fee that he felt people deserved when they brought him supplies.

Before he could hand the check off to Garth, though, the smaller man seemed to remember something. His eyebrows bounced up, and he raised a finger. Then he darted out the door. Sam, having no idea what was going on, stood where he was for a few seconds, then rolled his eyes and set the check aside. He sank into the nearest chair, which happened to be the one at his desk, to the sound of the demon's rattling.

Then, abruptly, the sound cut out. Only a few soft clinks drifted out of the cell for the next few seconds, and then there was nothing. Sam had been rubbing at the bridge of his nose, but now he raised his head, frowning, and peered over his shoulder. He found the demon staring at him, of course, but now his expression had changed - just like his arms had finally stilled. It almost looked...petulant. Like he was wondering why Sam hadn't picked him up yet.

Sam stared at him for a second, pushing the tip of his tongue against his lower lip, then raised his eyebrows. He shrugged and shook his head at the demon.

"Well, you tipped yourself over," he pointed out. It was only because he wasn't sure that he should be talking to him like this that he didn't add  _And you spit in my face._  "Maybe it'll be good for you to lay there for a while."

At first, he wasn't sure that he'd been heard. But then he saw it - the demon rolled his eyes. So quickly that he couldn't be sure that it'd actually happened. Sam blinked.

The door opened again before he could think about it too much; Garth had been polite enough to close it behind himself when he ran out. Garth stepped in, smiling and waving a small package in one hand.

"Found it!" he announced cheerfully.

"Found what?" Sam asked, ignoring the demon as he moved to stand up. Garth hurried over before he could.

"No, c'mon, Sam - " Garth began, reluctantly trading the package for the check when Sam picked it up and offered it to him. "Stay where you are. Your leg is really hurting you right now. I can tell."

Sam decided it'd be easier not to protest. Besides - it wasn't like he was wrong. He spun the package in both hands, examining it, as Garth tucked the check away. Post office. His P.O. box scribbled on the address label. No return address, but that wasn't really uncommon, since a lot of hunters were paranoid about being tracked through any mail they sent.

"That was in your P.O. box when I checked," Garth informed him.

"Must've shown up pretty recently," Sam replied, pulling open one of the drawers of his desk. A cursory search turned up a reasonably sharp letter opener, which he took to the tape that sealed the box shut. "They haven't called me about it yet."

Garth shrugged by way of an answer, then watched curiously as Sam got the box open. He knew better than to just reach in there with his bare hand. He got a lot of dangerous stuff in the mail, and just because someone wasn't intentionally trying to hurt him didn't mean that he couldn't lose a finger or five. So he used the letter opener to pry out the contents.

A bunch of crumpled-up paper, packing material, tumbled out, and a plain silver lighter clattered onto the wooden surface of his desk. A small slip of paper fluttered down to rest beside it. Sam turned the paper with the point of the letter opener until he could read what had been scribbled on it.

"'Cursed lighter,'" he read out, then pushed said lighter away from himself. He swept all the paper off of his desk and into the small plastic wastebasket next to it, then dropped the letter opener back into the drawer that it'd come from. "Well. That's helpful."

"What're you gonna do with it?" Garth asked. Sam closed his eyes and massaged the lids with his fingers.

"Don't know," he replied. "First I gotta figure out what's wrong with it. I'll do that later."

He felt a hand on his wrist, and pulled his fingers away from his eyes in order to open them and squint up at Garth's earnest face. He started trying to tug him to his feet, but two hundred pounds of muscle didn't budge easily.

"Let's go lay down," Garth suggested. "You look like you're about to fall right over."

"Let's get me another cup of coffee," Sam replied. "I need to get him upright." He jerked a thumb in the general direction of the demon. "Nadia and Vaughn aren't gonna feed themselves tonight. And if I lay down right now, I'm not gonna get back up." Or the demon would start rattling his chains again and Sam's mind would snap as cleanly as a weathered bone.

Garth made a face, but scrambled to get Sam more coffee anyway. As much as Sam enjoyed his solitude, it was kinda nice, having somebody bring everything that he needed to him. When Garth set a mug full of steaming black liquid on the desk, Sam grabbed his hand and gave it a warm, grateful squeeze.

"Thanks, Garth," he told him. "For bringing everything up, and for making me breakfast. I really appreciate it - and it was great to see you."

Garth grinned, and playfully asked, "Is this your way of telling me to scram?"

Sam cleared his throat, looked away, and shrugged with one shoulder, embarrassed. Garth laughed.

"All right," Garth said, straightening. "I'll get outta your hair. Are you gonna be okay?"

"Fine," Sam assured him, nodding. "I'll take a shower, do some reading...take it easy."

"That is a good idea," Garth proclaimed, and made a beeline for the door. He paused as he put his hand on the knob, then glanced back over his shoulder at Sam, who did his best not to visibly grit his teeth. "Oh. Just remembered something I was supposed to tell you."

Sam spread his hands welcomingly, and Garth continued: "The pig parts didn't actually come from a pig this time."

"Uh...okay." Vaughn would probably be disappointed. "What're they from, then?"

"I think that your guy said that they came out of...lambs?" Garth squinted, wrinkling his nose. "He got a big order for them a little while ago, and decided that he didn't want the brains and the blood to go to waste. How green is  _that_?"

He actually looked impressed. "Lambs. Okay. Got it. Thank you, Garth." That got rid of him, and the sound of his engine fading down the road both relieved and depressed Sam. He picked up the coffee, which appeared to be exactly the right temperature, took a long pull from it, and muttered, "At least Vaughn's gonna get some variety in his diet." Sure, he hadn't seemed too interested when they'd talked about it, but it would probably be good for him.

Sam drained the cup of coffee. That made him feel a little better, so he struggled to his feet, and forced his leg back into action. Limping over to the demon cell, he unlocked the gate, and pushed through. The demon watched him until he was standing behind the chair, where he couldn't see him anymore. Sam bent down, grabbed the back of it, and heaved both it and its contents upright in one go with a breathless grunt of effort. His back twinged with small pain, and he scowled at nothing in particular. One of these days, he was going to throw it out - all because he couldn't lift with his legs.

He walked back around to face the demon, giving his head a wide berth. It was the only part of his body that he could move freely. His hands were bound by the cuffs, his arms were chained to his chest, and the straps of the chair held him down, too: thick, scarred leather, more runes than Sam could count worked into it and the iron buckles. The demon was restrained at the chest, the stomach, across the thighs, right below the knees, and at each ankle. The straps on the chair's arms remained empty, for obvious reasons. The head was all Sam had to worry about, but it was a pretty formidable opponent, with the biting and the spitting. Neither of which he wanted to experience again.

The demon studied him curiously as he came to a stop several yards in front of him. Sam brushed a few tangled strands of brunette hair out of his face before speaking.

"Gonna rattle your chains again all night tonight?" he asked him. The prospect made him wilt inside, but no way was he gonna let the demon see that. "You know it doesn't do you any good. It never will."

Yeah, it didn't accomplish anything, besides keeping his captor awake all night and devastatingly tired all day. Tearing away swaths of a psyche that Sam suspected had already been unstable for several years now. He wished that there were something he could do to keep the sounds out, the clinking, the crashing, the thudding. But closing his door didn't block them, not completely, and both sets of headphones that he owned were too uncomfortable to wear while sleeping. They'd keep him up all night on their own.

The demon didn't answer. But Sam hadn't really expected him to; he imagined that his throat was still damaged, under the days-old bandage that had begun to show its age. After a couple of moments, though, the demon raised his hands. Sam automatically tensed, thinking that he was going to start rattling again. The Pavlovian response triggered a rush of shame, but now the demon was opening his hands, spreading his fingers wide. Sam had no idea what he was being shown, at first. Then he got it.

His fingers were perfectly straight. There was no swelling, no bruising, and no obvious fractures that Sam could pick out. They were no longer broken.

Sam stared. Then flicked his eyes up to the demon's face. He was impassive for a second, then his full lips pulled themselves into a smile that almost looked benevolent. Sam swallowed, turned, and left the cell, making sure to lock the gate behind him. His head was spinning as he retreated into his room.

This probably wouldn't have been that big of a deal to somebody who wasn't him, but he knew practically everything there was to know about demons, and how they worked. The thing was currently trussed up like a turkey in the demon-specific cell should not have been able to heal like that, according to what Sam understood about his kind. Not even if his vessel was alive. His fingers had been twisted brutally out of place...and it'd only been a few days. A normal human would have required surgery and months of rehabilitation to recover from that. The Knight had healed himself in under a week. There were very few things that were supposed to be able to do that, and angels (which Sam didn't ever plan on messing with) were among them.

Sam raked his hands through his hair and blew out a deep breath, momentarily closing his eyes. Well, now he had a better idea of what he was dealing with, at least. Which had been the demon's intention when he showed him his unmarred hands. It'd been a display of power - probably the only one he was capable of right now, with how tightly he was locked down in that cell. Or maybe it was a threat. He was showing him that he was healing, that he'd be back at his full power soon and that Sam'd better watch out. But he couldn't actively use any of that power, thanks to the runes and wards that surrounded him, so the healing must be a latent ability, passive magic…

Sam dropped onto his bed and reached for the nearest pencil and paper, which happened to be the Ticonderoga and notebook that he'd been using to jot things down about Elspeth, then flipped to the nearest blank page. He started scribbling, fear and shock turning to professional interest.

He'd gotten through about half the page, rapidly jotting down his observations and theories in his personalized shorthand, when the phone rang. Sam hissed through his teeth, but scooped it up from where it's dock was sitting on his nightstand with his left hand. After finishing up one last thought, he put his pencil down and leaned back against the wall. He was pretty sure that it was Garth, but he was wary about assuming, so he answered with a simple, "Yeah?"

"You're sounding pretty tired," Gordon observed.

Sam's eyes rolled skyward.  _Just what I need._

"Rough night," he replied. "Rough couple of nights, actually. How have you been?"

"Impatient." An engine thrummed behind Gordon's voice. He must be on the road, calling Sam on a cell phone. "Honestly expected you to call me the day after I dropped that Knight off with you. Tell me what you learned."

"Oh," Sam said. "Right. Yeah, I can see how you would've expected that. But I'm pretty sure you don't understand how busy I am right now. I've still got the banshee, and the wraith, and the dj - "

"And you couldn't've bumped a fucking Knight of Hell to the top of your to-do list?" Gordon demanded. "I know all about the wraith, by the way. You and I need to have a long talk about your relationship with that thing."

Sam reached up, rubbing at his eyes, and pulled the skin beneath one down as he struggled to hold back a sigh. Words bubbled out of his mouth - things that he probably wouldn't have said if he'd been less tired, had a better hold on himself.

"You didn't catch him, you didn't bring him in, and you didn't hold him for the last seven months." It came out weary and exasperated instead of annoyed, and he wasn't sure if that was better or not. Probably not. "You can snap at me all you want about your Knight, but the wraith's none of your business, and I think you know that."

He got a snort in answer, which he guessed was probably the best that he could hope for. "Careful, there, Winchester. You gotta keep a civil tongue in your head if you don't want somebody to cut it out for you." There was a pause, then Gordon grudgingly admitted, "But fair enough, I guess. So. Talk to me about that Knight - you get anything outta him yet?"

"Not really," Sam replied. He clamped down on a spark of bitterness before explaining. "He can't talk. His throat's hurt."

"He's faking it," Gordon said immediately. "Crocodile tears."

"His windpipe's crushed," Sam countered, an edge creeping into his voice before he could stop it. "Somebody grabbed him and squeezed until they broke the cartilage. It's a mess, and he physically  _can't talk._ "

Silence for a couple of seconds. Then: "We only did what we had to."

"Yeah, I'm sure." Sam blew out a breath. "I did find something, though."

"Yeah?" Gordon asked, interested.

Sam nodded, then remembered that Gordon couldn't see him, and continued. "He heals. Really, really fast. You guys snapped seven or eight of his fingers, and today, you can't even tell. He'll probably be able to talk again this time next week."

Gordon made an unimpressed  _tsk_ ing noise. "He heals, huh?"

"Yes."

"And how's that useful, exactly?"

Sam opened his mouth. His brain couldn't move fast enough for him to defend himself, though.

"I wanna know how to hurt this thing," Gordon went on. "How to kill him and all his kind. And I wanna know everything that he knows about the movements of his troops, and their plans, and the other leaders. You got no idea what it's like down here."

Sam assumed that he was referring to the supposed war against the forces of Hell that he had alluded to several days before, the battlefield that the Knight had been captured on. Neither of which Garth had mentioned today, which he felt like he should bring up.

"Garth who?" Gordon asked. "If I don't know him, I doubt he's involved. Listen, this thing is brutal, but it's still small, and you're the closest thing we've got to a network. You and Ellen and Ash, at the Roadhouse. Unless they're in the Midwest, they probably don't know what's going on. Guerrilla warfare and suicide missions. And that Knight's the only leader we've caught who hasn't been Oswalded yet." As he went on, something slipped into his voice that Sam could almost mistake for a plea. "We need information, here. We gotta nip this in the bud before it really gets going. And you gotta help us.

Sam didn't say anything for a little bit. He was so tired. Definitely not up to squaring off against the demon - which might've been his intention, actually, rattling his chains and tipping himself over every night. But he had a responsibility, didn't he? Especially if what Gordon said was true.

"Okay," he said finally. "I'll work on him today. Find out what hurts him bad enough to keep him down for at least a minute or two."

"That's more like it," Gordon said coolly. "He doesn't need to talk for that."

"Guess not," Sam agreed, but Gordon had already hung up, leaving him with nothing but dead air to keep him company.


	6. Chapter Six

_Demons are unique in one particular aspect, different from pretty much every other monster out there: they can't feel pain. They're immaterial, just like ghosts are, but unlike ghosts, they can't do a damn thing to the world around them unless they're in a stolen vessel. From what I understand about the lore, angels need permission in order to take over a human, but demons don't need anything at all to force their way in and do whatever they want. It's rape in its most fundamental form, and demons aren't particularly choosy about who their victims are._

_Once they're wearing somebody's skin, demons can use all of their Lucifer-given power. Telekinesis, killing with a touch, teleportation, even control over fire and light, in rare cases. And they wear their vessel like armor. Take a swing at them, and it'll only knock some innocent person's teeth out, and the demon will keep on coming. Bury an ax in their chest, and the vessel will bleed out, but the demon won't even flinch. Shoot them in the head. You'll free the human soul that's been an unwilling passenger this whole time, but as for the demon, you might as well be throwing peanuts at it. They don't feel anything that happens to their vessels._

_Demons react to iron, holy water, and salt with what looks a lot like pain, but I don't think it is. They can't cross over lines or circles constructed from these substances, so I think that they're just recoiling from it. It isn't even discomfort. Steam might rise from the skin of a vessel when you fling holy water at it, but there aren't any burns left behind. It's just a chemical reaction between the power of faith and the essence of the demon itself._

_They can be hindered by an injury to whatever human body they're currently riding. They might scream and carry on when you throw a handful of salt at them. It's very easy to forget that nothing hurts them for real - but it's important not to._

_Demons. Can't. Feel. Pain. Keep that in mind._

\- Demons and Other Biblical Monsters _, Sam Winchester_

* * *

An intentionally protein-rich lunch was followed by a fifteen-minute power nap, after Sam was finished with Gordon and had discovered a new resolve sitting like a lead weight in his stomach. Any longer than that and he would have started sinking into a deeper sleep pattern, which would have left him more tired when he got up than when he'd laid down. He went straight from his bed into a cold shower, which ended up knotting the muscles of his leg but still felt invigorating. Long hair drying in dark strings around his face, he shaved and brushed his teeth. The normal rituals just helped to wake him up further.

Once he felt as clean as he was probably going to get, Sam bound his hair back into a stubby ponytail with a rubber band, then took a cushion out onto the front porch and meditated. There was a lot to be said for clearing your mind for a couple of hours, for breathing deeply and focusing. And there were so many ways to do it. Listening to classical music, like he had after his session with Elspeth, was one that worked particularly well for him when he was wound up far past the point of comfort.

When he was a teenager, he used to run, as a form of meditation. Especially after a fight with his dad. With how often they clashed during that period of his life, he must have logged over a thousand miles, on trails and sidewalks all across the country.

But, obviously, he couldn't really do that anymore. So it was this or nothing.

Sam felt incredible after spending the better part of three hours outside, eyes closed and legs folded beneath him. The thick forest surrounding his cabin meant an almost claustrophobic isolation, but it also translated to a deep peace and an endless supply of fresh air. His sense of positivity was through the roof as he took the cushion back inside and got out two pots and a half-empty jug of bleach. He felt great about the experiments that he planned on performing on the demon tonight, and thought that he might even be able to spend an hour or two with Elspeth when he was done.

Vaughn and Nadia got their dinner. Vaughn complained about impending boredom, since he didn't have much left to read, and then about impending indigestion, when Sam told him that this would be his last pig brain for a while. Nadia was naked. This was only about the twentieth time that she'd tried it on him, so he didn't spare her orange-sized breasts or the red designs that surrounded her dark nipples more than a passing glance. He twitched, interestedly and involuntarily, in his boxers, though, when she took deep, powerful gulps of blood and her chest bounced with the rhythm of them.

He really needed to get laid, Sam realized as he cleaned everything up. Eight years was a long time for anyone, even him, with his tame libido, to go without getting any. But, somehow, he doubted that Garth would be up for delivering an afternoon delight with his usual shipment of supplies.

The whole house stank of bleach. With everything else taken care of, there was nothing left for him to do but face the demon. Calmly, Sam took a flask of holy water from the kitchen, a cast-iron poker from the umbrella stand of blunt instruments by the door, and one of his older journals from the neat stacks underneath his bed. Then he unlocked the door and entered the demon cell.

The demon shifted as much as he could in his chair when Sam came in, moving his head in order to get a better look at him. His eyes were drawn down to what Sam was carrying, and then they flicked to black. The ghost of a smirk made Sam's lips twitch.

"Yeah," he said, nodding. "It's finally time."

He set down the flask and the poker near the gate, then walked slowly forward as he flipped through the book in his hands. He stopped when he reached the notes that he'd taken about experiments on a standard demon - black eyes, unassuming male vessel, pretty low on Hell's totem pole. This Knight had to be pretty high-ranking, but hey, he still had black eyes. So some of Sam's earlier techniques might work on him. Only one way to find out.

"'Unable to cross barriers of salt,'" he read. "'Line thickness doesn't matter just so long as it's unbroken...holy water produces steam and an apparent pain reaction. Vessel is left unharmed.'" He snapped the journal shut as he reached his usual place, standing several feet in front of the demon and his chair. The kindness he used with Vaughn and the healthy respect that he had for Nadia wouldn't work here, with this thing. His only option was intimidation.

The demon looked up at him, making unashamed eye contact. Speaking of eyes, his were still black. Sam had learned that that was because the black smoke that made up every garden-variety demon out there flowed through the pupil and flooded the aqueous humor - his theory was that it was some kind of threat display, since the eyes seemed to involuntarily change when their owner got splashed with holy water or caught by an exorcism ritual.

He shook that little bit of trivia out of his head and folded his arms across his chest, his journal still in one hand. It wasn't gonna help him here. He began, "This isn't personal."

The demon leaned back in his chair, tar-colored eyes hooding with skepticism. Sam continued.

"You might've tried to take a bite outta me, and you might've spit in my face." He shifted his weight from one foot to the next, but didn't move his steady gaze. "But that's not why I'm gonna hurt you today. I don't hold grudges - I can't really afford to, in my line of work." He leaned forward a little, which brought a twinge from his leg. "I'm gonna hurt you because the people I work with, people I care about, need information. If there are more things like you out there, then they need to know how to stop them in their tracks. So they can save lives."

The demon shook his head, plush lips twisting slowly into a smile as he did. Sam wasn't sure if he didn't believe him about the grudge thing, if he was denouncing everything that he stood for, or if he was trying to tell him that there weren't any other Knights out there. Just like he had told Gordon before someone crushed his throat.

It would be a waste of time to try and figure it out. Sam turned and walked back to the front of the cell, swapping his journal out for the poker and flask. The demon looked unimpressed when he returned to him, his barefeet and the hems of his jeans making a whispery sound against the runes that'd been chiseled into the floor.

"Gordon and his men," Sam said, before unscrewing the flask with his teeth. He spoke around the cap. "The ones who caught you?" He let it fall, clattering, to the floor between his feet, which were spread shoulder-width apart. He made a mental note not to step on it and look like an idiot later. "I'm guessing that they used a lot of different stuff on you." He shook the flask, which made the blessed water inside slosh loudly. "But they were just trying to get rid of you. They weren't experimenting, which is what I'm going to be doing here. They weren't watching you to see what hurt you the most." He raised the poker a little, into a ready position. "I just thought I'd warn you: I'm not like them, and this is going to hurt worse than anything they did to you."

Sam hadn't been expecting a reaction to his little speech, but the demon smiled widely, and bounced well-shaped eyebrows at him. The message was clear:  _Bring it on._

Sam did. He swung the flask in a tight arch with a fluid movement of his wrist, and sent a thin rope of holy water splashing straight across the demon's face at eye level.

His reaction was instantaneous. He jerked back and snapped his eyes shut, but even with the freakish reflexes of something that came out of hell, it was too little, too late. The water was in his eyes, running down his face, and steam billowed up from the pale, freckled skin of his vessel in sickly tendrils. He shook his head violently back and forth in an effort to get it off of himself. A sound of agony bubbled up out of his mangled throat, a broken, grating noise that probably caused him just as much pain as what he was trying to express.

Sam watched it all impassively, already tucking away observations that he'd need to write down later so that he could relay them to Gordon. He hadn't brought a book to take notes in because he knew that his hands would be full.

Something inside of him twitched and cringed, watching the demon try to scream, but he crushed it under the heel of the boot of his will. It wasn't real pain. It couldn't be real pain. The second that he started feeling anything like sympathy for this  _thing_ , the most dangerous demon he'd ever had in his home, then it was all over.

The demon recovered, after a few minutes of writhing and thrashing around (not that he could do either very well, with all the restraints on him). The few droplets of holy water that hadn't evaporated dripped off of his chin, their power cancelled out by what he was. His head was bowed slightly and his eyes had faded to green. They were fixed, sightlessly, on his lap, or maybe his hands. Sam started to cock his head, wanting a better view of his face and therefore a better clue as to what he was feeling.

Suddenly, the demon's head snapped up, his lips pursed, and a red projectile came straight at Sam chest. He reacted reflexively, neatly stepping aside. A mixture of blood and phlegm spattered noisily against the concrete of the floor. The demon's eyes followed him as he moved, face turning towards him. His lips were red and slick now. He must still be bleeding internally, or at least in his mouth.

"You're eventually gonna get tired of spitting at me," Sam said. The only response he got was a loud sucking noise, as if the demon was gathering more ammunition. Sam would really rather not dodge another stream of gore. His wrist twitched, sending a fountain of holy water tumbling down over the demon's bound hands, the fingers that had just barely healed. It all but emptied the flask.

The reaction was just as violent this time as it had been the last. Maybe even more so. His fingers were more sensitive than his eyes, obviously - or something else was, since the water on his hands was dripping down onto his lap and soaking through his jeans. The dried blood that covered his shirt was wet again, and it glistened in the light coming from the other room as he spasmed and bucked against his restraints. His freckled face twisted with hurt, but he didn't try to scream again, apparently having learned his lesson about that.

Sam, standing to the side of the chair, watched the demon's hands shake like an alcoholic wrestling with DTs. He clenched and unclenched them as tendrils of steam wafted up past his black eyes. Sam swallowed, a little too thickly for his taste. At least he knew that concentrated holy water hurt, even if it didn't incapacitate a Knight.

The pain slowly faded as Sam watched, the steam stopped rising. The demon's hands shuddered, then went limp, hanging from their cuffs. Sam tossed the flask aside. He knew that he'd have to pick it up later, but for now, it was all about making an impression.

He could swear that the demon flinched a tiny bit at the sound of metal clattering against concrete. But before he could start feeling triumphant, he turned his head towards him, fixing his black eyes on his face. Sam was shocked at how expressive they were, considering that they were a solid color. And he suppressed a shiver, at the hate he could see in them, the rage. It was intense enough to be...well, demonic.

Sam was so focussed on the demon's eyes that he barely noticed him lifting one of his hands again, curling it into a fist, and rapidly popping it open again. But he noticed when the rubber band that he'd used to tie his hair back, the brand-new, thick, sturdy rubber band, snapped.

Sam simply reacted as his hair, now loose, tumbled forward around his face. It was driven by panic. He didn't stop to consider that having his rubber band broken really wasn't that big of a deal, or that this was probably the full extent of what the demon could do with all those chains and straps on him. His mind zeroed in on the fact that he had to discourage that kind of behavior before it even really got started, and the poker came up, its tip pressing into a patch of vulnerable flesh on the demon's neck - above the bandage but below his hair.

He tried to pull away. Sam pressed harder, knowing that he had nowhere to go. Smoke curled up with an ugly hissing sound, and the pale skin turned reddened and puckered where the iron was in contact with it. Every muscle in the demon's body had gone as taut as the rubber band that had been wrapped around Sam's hair. His mouth was open in a soundless gasp, , and his eyes were wide - and still black. Sam noted, clinically, they looked glossier than usual, as he pushed the poker deeper and deeper into the meat of the demon's neck and the hissing increased. But he dismissed it.

Until, at least, what was unmistakably a tear welled out of one of his eyes and traced a path through the dried blood and grime on his face, before catching itself in his stubble.

Sam jerked the poker away. The demon went limp with something that looked a whole lot like exhaustion almost as soon as he did, head lolling to the side and exposing the raw burn that Sam had created. He blinked slowly, and tears kept leaking from his eyes as the black drained away, disappearing into his pupils.

His gaze flicked to Sam as the poker slipped out of his numb fingers and crashed, devastatingly loud, to the floor. His mouth twitched a little, baring blood-webbed teeth in a brief grimace. He squinted his eyes, as if trying to get himself to stop crying, then visibly winced in pain when the movement tugged on his wound. The tears on his cheeks reflected the light, just as the blood on his shirt had done earlier. He made a soft hitching sound in the back of his throat, and then Sam couldn't stand to be in the cell any longer.

He left the poker, the flask, its lid, the journal, everything that wasn't on his body as he bolted through the gate and away from the weeping demon. His leg screamed like the demon had tried to as he ran on it for the first time in seven years, and gave out after about a dozen strides, in the bathroom. It dumped him right in front of the toilet, which he grabbed and heaved into the second that he was on its level. His stomach had been climbing his throat the whole time, and he couldn't hold it back any longer.

Sam retched out the remains of his lunch. His eyes watered, sending tears streaming down his face, and he wasn't sure that they were all because of his gag reflex. He was sick from himself and what he had done. Sick from seeing tears of pain that the leader of a demonic army hadn't been able to hold back.

Sam's breathing shuddered and stuck when he was done, leaning heavily against the toilet. His cheek was pressed to the cool porcelain of the seat and his eyes were closed, a droplet falling every once in a while off of his eyelashes and into the mess in the bowl with an almost musical  _plop._  Slowly, he raised a hand to tug the lever down, and lifted his head to gulp in fresh air as it flushed. He used his other hand to wipe the moisture off of his face. After rocking back on his heels, he got to his feet (or, well, foot - his left leg refused to cooperate), and leaned heavily against the counter. He washed his hands, splashed some of the cold water on his face when they were clean, then brushed pretty much his entire mouth to get rid of the acrid taste of vomit.

He stared fiercely at himself in the mirror while he did that, making eye contact, trying to get a grip. His irises were a watery gray right now; he had gotten used, a long time ago, to them being a different color every time he looked in the mirror. Not quite like a demon's eyes changed color, though.

He spat a mouthful of foam into the sink and turned on the water to rinse it away. It had to have been a trick, designed to manipulate him - and it'd definitely worked, Sam though with a humorless smirk to his reflection. Demons, in his lengthy experience with them, didn't feel pain that was in any way similar to what human beings did. They didn't shed tears. There were plenty of normal people out there who could cry on command, and he was sure that it'd be even easier for demons to squeeze out a few tears, with control over their vessels so great that they could stop hearts if they wanted to.

But, somehow, thinking about this wasn't making Sam feel much better. And there was the burn, the burn that shouldn't have happened and couldn't possibly have been faked...he sighed and dragged a hand, fingers spread, through his hair before rinsing his mouth and pitching his toothbrush into the bathroom's small trash can. He wasted no time in retreating to his bedroom, so he could lie down in the darkness and the warmth and, hopefully, fall asleep. All of the complaints that his tired body had had this morning had come back, and they'd brought friends.

He wasn't going to get around to Elspeth tonight.


	7. Chapter Seven

_Heavy scarring from the back of the knee to the top of the ankle. Scar tissue is pink, shiny, and lumpy in texture, and is easily separated into two separate tracks on the calf. No damage to Achilles tendon; it was narrowly missed when the injury was received. Fibula broken cleanly and since healed well. Deep grooves in the tibia. An X-ray has not been taken in almost five years, but it is assumed that they are still present, given the amount of bone pain._

_Heavy damage to the gastrocnemius muscle. Was largely destroyed by the injury, and was prevented from regenerating by the formation of excessive scar tissue. Very weak, because of reduced size, and possesses little stamina. Minimal damage to soleus muscle, largely healed._

_Right leg (dominant leg) is mostly unaffected, besides superficial wounds to muscle and flesh that have long since healed fully. Damage is limited almost entirely to left leg._

_Unable to put any weight at all on left leg directly after the accident. May have been largely due to presence of a painful and life-threatening infection, as well as above-mentioned bone damage. Amputation below the knee was highly recommended, but it's my damn leg and I can still use it - ability to walk was reclaimed after bones set and infection was successfully retreated, due to overcompensation of the undamaged soleus and fibularis longus muscles._

_Chemical treatment of pain refused after second year, except in rare cases when normal activities are impossibly because of it. Pain level has not improved since then. Pain is constant, and spasms and cramps of what is left of the gastrocnemius muscle are frequent. Frequency is increased by stress brought on my uncomfortable positions, prolonged standing, and nightmares. A limp is necessary when walking. Running is impossibly. Daily use of a cane has been refused._

_It's never going to get any better than what it is right now, but luckily, I'm used to it._

-  _Personal journal of Sam Winchester_

* * *

The arrival of the morning wasn't something that Sam welcomed, sprawled out underneath his heavy covers and unable to force himself back to sleep. It wasn't that he was tired - quite the opposite, actually. He'd slept long, hard, and deep, even though he felt like he should have been plagued by nightmares, after what had happened yesterday. No chains had rattled, no chairs had tipped over. With those two factors combined, this was the best night he'd had all week. Ironically enough.

He hated the fact that it was morning because that meant that he had to get up and face his responsibilities. Or, well, he supposed that he didn't  _have_  to. He could just lay here all day and wait to starve to death. The fact that that actually sounded preferable to getting out of bed did not bode well for the rest of the day, in his opinion.

He threw the covers off and sat up anyway. Nadia and Vaughn needed to be fed, and Vaughn needed a shower. Which wasn't something that he could do unsupervised, unfortunately for them both.

But there was something that he needed to do before he could tend to them, Sam reminded himself with an internal sigh as he stood, opened his door, and walked out of his bedroom. The gate to the demon cell still stood wide open; he was suddenly very grateful for all of the heavy restraints that kept its occupant from just walking right out. He could see his journal sitting on the concrete floor just inside the doorway, and felt sure that the empty flask and the iron poker were also exactly where he'd left them. Sucking in a deep breath, Sam crossed the room, and was shocked when his leg let him. It hurt, but no more than it usually did. Maybe it was rewarding him for last night's deep rest.

The demon almost looked like he was sleeping when Sam stepped over the line of salt and entered the cell. Eyes closed, head bowed until his chin touched the metal collar on his clavicle. But he quickly opened his eyes and raised his head at the sound of footsteps, which didn't surprise Sam - he knew demons didn't sleep.

Green eyes followed him as he picked up the journal, the flask's cap, the flask itself, and finally the poker. He had a good view of the iron-induced burn on the demon's neck while retrieving that last thing, and he noticed that it seemed to have gotten worse during the night, swollen and angry-looking.

Sam didn't bother closing the gate behind him when he left the cell and put everything that he'd gathered up back in its place. He knew that the demon was watching him the whole time that he was in his line of sight, and he couldn't really blame him, since he knew that he had to look pretty interesting. He'd come straight from bed, so his hair was a feral mess, and he was wearing sweatpants and a T-shirt too ratty to use for anything but sleeping.

When he was finished, he grabbed the first-aid kit from the bathroom and a washcloth from the kitchen, and then returned to the cell.

He could practically feel the demon's confusion as he walked over to him, but he didn't say anything to dispel it. He just knelt in front of him, leg unhappy about it, and began to work his way up. Opening the kit, he pulled out the scissors, and cut the right leg of the demon's jeans open after undoing the strap on his shin, to get at his swollen knee. Sam probed at it, frowning, and the demon twitched with what he tried to force himself to believe was an imitation of pain. Something inside of it was definitely broken, and several of the tendons had been torn. He wasn't a doctor, but he could tell that much. He had no doubt that it'd heal perfectly if it was just given enough time to knit itself back together. But he could help it along. He tightly wrapped bandages around the join, to cut down on the swelling. With that done, he moved up.

He cut the demon's blood-soaked T-shirt off of him, then peeled it away from his skin, which was much easier said than done, with the chain wrapped around his upper body and the straps across his stomach and chest. Sam couldn't make out specific wounds until he scrubbed some of the blood, so dry that it wasn't even sticky, off of the freckled skin of the demonic vessel with the cloth that he'd brought along. There was a messy, deep wound in his solar plexus, apparently made by a knife being brutally twisted in his flesh. His ribcage was blackened and misshapen by bruises and broken bones. Sam winced just looking at the damage, thinking about all the kicks and punches that it must have taken to do that to him. He didn't know how much he could do to actually fix it, but he guessed it couldn't hurt to try.

Sam washed out the wound, which wasn't fun, because it was very infected. At least Gordon hadn't torn open any of the demon's organs - it'd gone straight into his diaphragm. Sam stitched all the different layers shut once the pus and necrotic flesh were gone, which went quickly. Stitches were something he was good at giving; he'd had lots of practice. He taped a gauze pad over them to keep the wound clean and moist. The demon's battered ribs...Sam originally attempted to push them back into place, but gave up on that after about thirty seconds. He ended up swaddling most of his torso in the same bandages that he'd used on his knee and hoping that that kept it from getting any worse.

He changed the bandages on his throat. The injury there was looking a lot better, and Sam chose to believe that it was because of what he'd done with it. He wondered how long it'd be before the demon would be able to talk.

He slathered burn cream on what he'd inflicted yesterday, with the poker, and then wiped dried blood off of the bruised side of the demon's face and out of his close-cropped hair. Said demon let him work the whole time. There was no biting, no spitting - in fact, he moved his head to give Sam better access to certain areas.

Once Sam was finished, he dropped his stained cloth into its bowl of blood-clouded water and packed empty wrappers back into his first-aid kit with an air of happy exhaustion. It'd taken a lot out of him (specifically, a lot out of his leg) to do so much, but he felt like he'd done the right thing.

At least until he heard the demon speak.

He was staring down at him, watching him clean up, with green eyes that held about as much emotion as a snake's. His voice was a raspy, croaking thing, and it sounded like it was physically painful for him to get out the one word that he did: "Limp."

Sam froze, muscles stiffening. He wanted to look at the demon, but it only took him a split second to decide that he _didn't_  want to give him that satisfaction. Instead, he finished what he was doing, stood with the kit in one hand and the bowl in the other, and walked out without looking back.

He closed the gate this time, and locked it, too.

"You," Nadia accused in a voice that was almost devastatingly casual, "are a coward."

"Well, that came outta nowhere," Sam replied. He raised the plastic bottle in his right hand and gave it a shake. "D'you want your blood or not?"

Nadia's dark, thick-lashed eyes narrowed slightly. The effect was unfairly sensuous. "You can't avoid this."

"I'll pour it down the drain," Sam answered. He shook the bottle again, harder this time. It made the gory contents slop messily around inside.

Nadia scoffed, shaking her head and looking away from him. She crossed her arms under her breasts, which emphasized them in a way that looked completely natural. At least she was wearing clothes today: her usual shapeless sweats.

"Lamb's blood," she said, distaste heavy in her voice. "As if I would have anything to do with that."

Sam shrugged, unconcerned. "Fine. See you tomorrow, then. Vaughn needs to shower." He reached for the inside knob of Nadia's door.

"Why don't you ever let  _me_  shower?" Her voice took on a childish whine that (thank god) wasn't even remotely sexy. "It's always the wraith boy. You give him so much special treatment."

"Uh, that's 'cause I  _trust_  him," Sam said, the corner of his mouth quirking up in an incredulous grin. "Vaughn gets to shower. You get a washcloth and a bucket of soapy water. He's proven that he doesn't have any interest in killing me. You, on the other hand...you've been here almost as long as he has, and you still look at me like I'm something to eat."

"That's because you  _are_  something to eat," Nadia shot back. Her upper lip curled in a sneer, exposing perfect white teeth. "You're prey. You're weak - you're a coward."

"Oh," Sam said. "We're back to that, now, huh?"

Nadia didn't say anything, just lifted her chin and glared imperiously down at him. Never mind the fact that he was a full foot and a half taller than she was. He sighed, leaning against the door.

"All right, fine," he said. "I'll bite." He widened his eyes, the gesture exaggerated. "Why am I a coward?"

"The demon prince," Nadia replied.

"Knight," Sam automatically corrected her. "We've been over this. He's a Knight of Hell, not a prince."

Nadia gave him an unimpressed look before asking, "Does the title really matter? He's the most powerful thing you've ever had in your home."

She obviously hadn't been here when he'd summoned Marduk, but he decided not to bring up that particular incident. Instead, he stepped into the center of the room, set down the bottle that he'd been holding, and then stepped back.

"Maybe," he said. "But all that power's on lockdown. He's not going anywhere anytime soon." Nodding to the bottle, he added, "Please. You need to feet. You'll get sick if you don't."

"As if you'd lose any sleep over me if I did," she replied. "And as if this stuff won't make me sick on its own." But she picked the bottle up anyway, yanking the nottle up with her teeth in order to unseal it. "He's bound, you're right. He can't even touch you," she continued between gulps of blood. "But, somehow, he's still controlling you. And he's doing a great job of it, from what I've seen."

Sam cleared his throat, crossing his arms over his chest. "You haven't seen anything," he pointed out. "You haven't been outta this cell in months."

"But I've  _heard_ ," Nadia replied, sounding much more smug than she had a right to be. "You know my hearing's a lot better than yours. And the soundproofing in this cell's faulty or something - I'd touch it up before I put another monster in here, if I were you."

"What'd you hear?" Sam asked. It wasn't really news to him that the soundproofing in Nadia's cell was the weakest out of all of them. The previous occupant had been a ghoul with a fetish for imitating the screams his victims had made right before he ate them alive. Sam hadn't batted a sleep-deprived eye when it was time to get rid of him.

"Every time that he chased you out of his cell before you were ready to leave," Nadia answered. She sank down onto her cot before tossing the empty bottle to Sam. He caught it easily. "With blood, with tears, and, today, with a word. Just one word." She blinked innocently. "I didn't actually catch that word, though. I can't help but wonder what  _one word_  could send you right out of his cell with your tail tucked between your legs like that."

"Yeah," Sam agreed neutrally. He pressed down on the knob of the door, and it swung soundlessly open. "That's a real mystery, isn't it?"

"You're a coward," Nadia called as he left, repeating herself from before. "You're weak."

Sam rolled his eyes, pushing the door closed and locking it. "I'll bring you your bucket this afternoon," he said. If her hearing was as good as she'd said, then she should be able to pick up on that.

He filled the sports bottle with warm water and left it to soak in the sink, then unlocked and opened Vaughn's door. The wraith looked up from where he was sprawled out on his cot, then swung his legs over the edge. Sam held up a hand as he picked up the bowl and the shriveled brain inside of it.

"Hold your horses," he told him. "Lemme take care of this, and then we can go."

Vaughn let out a deep, theatrical sigh, laying back on his cot. He eyed Sam accusingly before he closed the door, but didn't seem to have the time or the desire to say anything. It wasn't like he waited long. Once the bowl (and everything else) was clean and the brain was gone, Sam went back to get him and lead him into the bathroom.

Vaughn stripped when Sam obligingly turned his back, and he gathered up his clothes to toss into the laundry pile. After dropping a clean set of clothes on the counter, he sank onto the toilet, hissing in pain as he took the weight off of his leg and stretched it out.

"Leg bothering you?"Vaughn asked, apparently having heard the soft sound even over the cacophony of splattering water.

"My leg is always bothering me," Sam replied. "I just put it through a workout this morning."

Vaughn, an orange-and-white blur thanks to the heavy frosting on the glass of the door, moved inside the shower stall. Sam could tell that he was washing his hair, but it also looked like he had uneasily shifted his weight. "Did you…" He cleared his throat. Squeakily. His voice was still changing. "Did you do something with the new guy?"

Sam leaned back a little, contemplating. This was the first time Vaughn had asked about his relatively new neighbor. That was a little surprising, considering that he was usually at least a bit curious about the world outside of his cell. He was also much closer to the demon than Nadia was, even if his soundproofing was better.

"Are you afraid of him?" Sam asked mildly, putting one ankle on the opposite knee in an effort to get more comfortable.

Vaughn's head, a bright spot of color, shook violently back and forth. Droplets of water hit the door.

"Of course I'm not!" he snapped. "It's not like I'm human - I've got plenty of defenses. There's not a lot that scares me." There was a pause. Sam heard him squeeze something out of a bottle. "I can feel him, though. I don't know what he is, but he's  _strong_ , and I've - got a healthy respect for him."

Sam huffed out something that wasn't quite a laugh. "He's a Knight of Hell."

"He's a demon?" Vaughn asked, a little doubtfully.

"He's a kind of demon," Sam allowed. "Just like you're a kind of shapeshifter. But is to a normal, run-of-the-mill demon what you are to a chameleon."

There was a shocked silence that lasted for about two seconds. Vaughn turned under the spray of water with an impressed, "Wow."

"Yeah," Sam agreed as he folded his arms. "But he's not leaving his cell. Not until I figure out how to kill or exorcise him - and even then, it'll only be his vessel that I'm taking out. You don't have anything to be afraid of."

"Not afraid," Vaughn reminded him, sounding annoyed. "Did you take a shower this morning?"

"Yep," Sam said. Right before he'd turned his attention to Nadia and Vaughn, actually. "Is the water running cold?"

Vaughn shut it off in answer, then caught the folded towel that Sam tossed over the top of the door. He stepped out and let the wet towel hit the bathroom tiles once Sam had put his back to him, and he heard the rustle of fabric and the squeak of plastic as he dressed himself and combed his hair. Glancing over his shoulder, he caught sight of both Vaughn and the reflection that marked him unmistakably as a wraith - a withered, corpse-like, eldritch figure that didn't look anything like the kid on the other side of the mirror. Except for the height, build, and basic facial shapes that they shared. Sam had gotten used to it a while ago. He imagined that Vaughn had been used to it for most of his life, since it was him.

"Speaking of shapeshifting," Sam began as something suddenly occurred to him.

Vaughn groaned loudly, dropping the comb back to the counter. His hair still gleamed wetly, but at least it was neat now. He turned to squint at Sam, leaning on the counter with one hand and stuffing the other into the pocket of his fresh jeans.

"I thought I was gonna be able to avoid your weirdness today," he grumbled. Sam grinned.

"Is it okay if I take notes?" he asked, still sitting down. Vaughn's eyes narrowed a little more.

"No," he said bluntly. "You know it's not."

Sam lifted his hands, palms out, placatingly. "Right, right. Sorry."

"Go ahead." Vaughn turned so that his back was to the mirror, staring down at his bare feet and resting all of his weight on his hips, where they met the edge of the bathroom counter. He raised a hand to rub at the back of his neck. "Shoot."

"You can...look like whoever and whatever you want, from what I understand," Sam began, spreading his hands as he spoke. As per usual, Vaughn's tense body language slowly relaxed while he talked. "But you've looked exactly the same - you've been yourself - for the entire time you've been here. Why?"

"How do  _you_  know this is the real me?" Vaughn asked, glancing at Sam and waggling his eyebrows.

"Because your reflection could be your burned corpse," Sam answered. "It looks exactly like you. No difference in size or shape." He didn't mention the fact that he knew Vaughn's mother had been a pale redhead, too.

Vaughn deflated a little. "Oh." His mouth moved. "You're no fun, Sam." He moved his hand down to scratch his chest, before abruptly asking, "Why don't you cut your hair?"

Sam blinked, caught off-guard. "Uh...I don't know," he said, then shrugged. "I guess because I'm not out in the field anymore. I'm not hunting or fighting, so...I don't need to."

"And it's a huge pain in the butt, right?" Vaughn pressed. When Sam nodded, he pointed at him. "Yeah. See? That's my answer. No reason to, and it's a pain."

Sam nodded again, slowly, then stood up. Vaughn was between him and the door, and that would have bothered him if he'd been anyone (or anything) else. He was fine with him blocking his escape route, though.

"Good answer," he said. "Ready to go back to your room?"

Vaughn made a face. "I'm almost outta books."

"I know. I'll get you more soon - promise." Sam put a hand on Vaughn's shoulder and guided him back to his cell. As he stood in the doorway, Vaughn turned to face him, and spoke.

"What were you doing with the Knight?" he asked. "This morning, I mean." Sam hesitated before answering.

"Patching up his wounds," he finally said, quietly. "The hunter who brought him in here really beat him up."

Vaughn snorted. "Sap." Sam smirked, but, after a pause, Vaughn sighed and added, "You're a good guy. That was a good thing to do."

"Yep," Sam replied, before closing and then locking the door to Vaughn's cell.


	8. Chapter Eight

_I know that I really shouldn't feel guilty when this happens. It's not like it's really my fault, and it's something that I've got to be prepared to do when I bring these things into my home. They're dangerous, and I expose myself to them every single day. I make myself vulnerable. Thinking about it, I might actually put myself in harm's way more than a normal hunter ever does, considering that most of them don't come face-to-face with more than one monster on a daily basis._

_My biggest mistake is probably that I start getting a lot closer to them than I should, if I've got them for more than a week or so. I get attached to them, start thinking of them almost like they're my friends. Most of them can act so human that it's really hard not to. Even out in the real world, no one will send you to jail for ramming a knife into your friend's chest if he goes for your throat, but you're gonna feel bad no matter what. Confused. Shaken._

_I'm just defending myself, when they turn on me. I have to kill them - otherwise, I'll wind up as either a meal or another monster. This is a lot like the torture and the experiments, I guess. I know that it's necessary, but I still beat myself up over it. It keeps me up at night and I ask myself way too many questions. Every time that I have to take one of them out before I'm ready to._

_Did I do something to make them hate me? Did I miss something in their diet that made them desperate enough to attack me to get it? Are they as much a victim of their natural instincts as I am? Do they despise me for doing what I had to protect myself?_

_Just what the hell happens to monsters when they die, anyway?_

-  _Personal journal of Sam Winchester_

* * *

Sam dragged the fingers of one hand through the wet Medusa locks of his dark hair, working out snags and knots when he found them. He stared at himself in the mirror, resting all of his weight on his other hand where it was spread on the counter. The skin around his eyes, discolored by dark circles he'd long ago accepted were permanent, twitched at every tugging sting on his scalp. After a few minutes of that, he decided that what he'd done was good enough. There weren't very many tangles left. Exhaling deeply through his nose, he wiped his hand dry on the towel that hung next to the mirror, then shook it clean of all the chocolate-colored hairs that were wrapped around his fingers, with the weird elasticity that water gave them.

He'd showered. He'd shaved. He'd brushed his teeth. He'd gotten dressed (he unconsciously reached down to tug his jeans a little higher on his hips as he mentally checked off that box). He'd fixed his hair. There was nothing else he could do in the bathroom. Unfortunately.

Taking a deep breath as he faced the closed door, Sam steeled himself, then reached for the cheap knob and opened it. It didn't make any sound that he could hear, but he was human. His hearing sucked.

"Oh, well, hey, would you look at that." Sam's jaw locked shut, teeth gritting with an ugly grinding sound. If this kept up, then he'd have to get Garth to drive him into town so the local dentist could fit him for dentures. "Finally. Look, I can understand long showers better than anybody. The monkey needs spanking every once in a while, right? But,  _jeez_ , you were in there a long time." Chains clinked against each other in the demon cell as Sam quickly crossed the short distance between the bathroom and his bedroom. "Which kinda makes me curious: just what is it that gets you off, huh? You really seemed to like that poker you used on me the other day. Maybe you fantasize about - "

Sam, having made it to his room, firmly closed the door. The voice was immediately muffled to the point where he couldn't make out any individual words. He groaned tiredly in the back of his throat, leaning against the door with his hand still on the knob. His body sank slightly into the heavy foam, taken from the shed, that he'd padded his door with yesterday morning. The walls were pretty thick, but sound had still come easily through the door until he'd taken steps to fix that.

The demon had regained his voice.

His throat must have healed beneath the bandages on it. Not that Sam would know, since he hadn't been in to check since the day when he'd managed his first word. His voice had been steadily growing stronger, clearer, over the few days that it'd been since then, and much like his appearance, it hadn't been what Sam had been expecting.

Given how fine the vessel's features were, he'd unconsciously put his faith in something even and melodic but still masculine. A singer's voice, for lack of a better explanation. But it was deep, deeper than his own, and as rough and gravelly as if he'd been smoking an unfiltered pack a day for years. (That last thing might be partially due to the damage to his throat, though. And the fact that he hadn't had any water since God only knew when - demonic energy couldn't provide  _everything_  for a vessel.) He had a twang that sounded vaguely Midwestern to Sam, and which came out strongly sometimes and hid itself others. He suspected that that was the demon wrestling with his vessel's natural speech patterns.

And, Jesus, he was loud. And as foul-mouthed as every pissed off hunter Sam had ever had to deal with. He couldn't so much as crack the door of whatever room he was in without receiving a barrage of insults. Every time he wanted to get something to eat, he had to endure the Knight's abuse. He wondered if Nadia could hear what he'd been saying, then realized that she probably could.

At least he hadn't replied yet. He'd been exercising his iron will (which other people had frequently called "pigheadedness") by ignoring everything the demon threw at him. It didn't seem to be making much of a difference.

Sam pushed off of the door, turning to look at his bed. He'd already set his laptop up on it, with all his notes spread out on the blankets. His sketchbook and the journal he'd been using to record his observations regarding Elspeth the banshee. He'd made a lot of progress on the book - pretty much the only good thing that had come out of being basically trapped in his room for the past few days.

He picked up the journal, nearly full, flipped through it, and snorted. Nadia had been right the other day, when she'd accused him of being a coward because he let the demon control him. He'd allowed himself to be driven into his room, into the bathroom, into Elspeth's cell because he couldn't stand to listen to him for more than a few minutes at a time. He'd basically handed most of his house over to the thing that sat bound in his Circle of Solomon.

He'd been trying to convince himself, lately, that he was only in here because he wanted to finish the book and convert everything in it into online articles. And, y'know, he'd come pretty close. He'd gotten almost everything he needed to know from Elspeth. The only thing left to figure out was how to kill or neutralize a banshee - which was all most of his readers wanted from him, anyway.

Sam lowered himself onto his bed and swung his aching leg up onto it. There were a few things he needed to do before he hit the books for anything about killing banshees, and it actually wasn't stalling. He had e-mails to answer, from people who needed his advice. There was routine maintenance to perform on the site. Formats needed to be set up for the new articles that he'd be posting soon, sketches needed to be scanned, everything that he was finished with needed to be sent to Ellen...he was soon absorbed with the work, just a bunch of little things mashed together. He decided to skip lunch, telling himself he'd had a big breakfast (a bowl of cereal and an English muffin), and ignored the hunger gnawing at his stomach lining. When he looked at the clock again, it was time to feed Nadia and Vaughn.

"Pets're getting hungry, huh?" the demon called to Sam as he left his bedroom and limped across the cabin. His leg was stiff and unresponsive after he'd spent most of the day sitting on his bed. "How come I never get to see 'em? Sure they'd appreciate it if you led 'em out here so I could take a look at 'em." He stepped into his boots and opened the door. "Especially your djinn. Boy, bet she's a sight in a collar and leash. But tell me this - she got nice tits or not?"

Sam left the cabin and headed for his shed, wondering, briefly, how the demon knew that he had a female djinn. Then he realized that he'd probably felt her, just like she and Vaughn had been feeling him since he entered the house. Sam's own senses were blunted, but monsters reacted to power, no matter how slight.

After retrieving a brain and some blood from the freezer, Sam brought them inside and dumped them into pots to thaw. The demon's voice was his constant companion as he moved around the kitchen, commenting on his hair, speculating about what he'd been doing in his room for six and a half hours, and, of course, taking frequent shots at his leg and the way that he walked. Sam realized now that he never should have reacted the way that he had to the first word the demon spoke to him. He might as well have shoved his wasted left calf in his face and told him, "Here. Right here - this is my weak spot."

He was still going strong half an hour in, when the contents of the pots had gotten warm enough to steam. Sam ignored him, dumping them into their various containers and scrubbing the pots with bleach. He ducked into his bedroom to grab about a dozen comic books out of a cardboard box in his closet (the supply was running low; he'd have to add that to the list that Garth and Charlie used when they shopped for him), then made his way over to Vaughn's cell with them in one hand and the bowl of brain juice in the other. He juggled them as he unlocked and opened the door.

Vaughn was laying on his cot with his eyes closed, apparently napping, but he got up as soon as Sam stepped into the small room. Sam frowned.

"You feeling okay?" he asked, as Vaughn took the bowl from him and attacked its contents.

"Yeah, of course I am," he replied, licking his lips and making eye contact with Sam as he looked up from his meal. "I'm just  _bored_."

"Well, I can fix that," Sam replied. He held out the comic books, which Vaughn apparently hadn't noticed with a brain in the room, and watched his blue eyes light up.

"Awesome!" He quickly set the bowl aside on his TV tray nightstand, then snatched the books away from Sam. He dropped onto his bed and sorted through them, scanning titles and covers, separating them into three different plies that looked completely random to Sam after a few minutes of that. When he was apparently finished, he looked up at him and gave him a huge smile. "Thanks. These'll last me a while."

Sam laughed. "I'm glad. I really hate seeing you sulk." He nodded to the bowl on the nightstand and added, "I'll be back for that in a little while. Don't forget to eat."

"Mm-hm." Vaughn nodded absentmindedly, already engrossed in a book. Sam smirked and left him to it, closing his door.

Nadia was next. He picked her bottle up off of the counter and padded over to her cell. He really hoped that she wasn't naked today. The demon would probably be able to pick up on it, and he wasn't sure that he could handle being teased about his nonexistent sex life.

He knew that something was wrong as soon as he opened the door. The light on the ceiling, which Nadia had kept on at all times since she'd come to him, was off, which meant the tiny cell was filled with complete darkness. Sam himself was block most of the light coming from the room behind him, so he couldn't even make out the shape of the cot. Frowning, he stepped inside. Maybe the batteries in the light had burned out or something.

"Nadia?" he asked. He didn't bother calling, since the cell was so small. "Hey. Nadia."

He raised the sports bottle, planning on shaking it in an effort to draw her out, even though he was becoming increasingly worried that she was sick or injured and didn't even know that he was in the room. He never actually got the chance, though. A cannonball of compact muscle launched itself at him from the direction of the cot he couldn't see, hands and arms slamming into his chest before he could react. The momentum carried him to the floor. The back of his skull  _crack_ ed against the hardwood boards, and for a second, all he could see were flashes of red and black as a spike of nauseating pain drilled through him.

"Nadia," Sam gasped. Or, rather, gurgled. He must have bitten his tongue or his cheek, because his mouth was full of blood and phlegm.

"This was too easy." That was her answer. She was gloating. "How could you be so stupid?" A hand latched onto his face, soft and feminine, and fingernails dug maroon crescents into the edges. "Working with something like me...it's just like I told you a few days ago. You're weak, Sam. You're prey."

Sam's skin tingled against her palm and fingers. She was poisonous, her venom contained within the red tattoos that covered her body. She could get enough of it into his bloodstream to knock him out for hours just by touching his bare skin once. And she'd had direct contact with him - with his  _face_  - for the past twenty seconds or so.

He forced his hand up, moving past the agony in his head. He probably had a concussion, but he'd have to deal with that later, once the more pressing issues were dealt with. His fingers wrapped around Nadia's forearm as he coaxed his other hand into a fist. He ripped her hand off of his face at the same moment he swung, able to put strength behind it only because he knew that his life depended on getting her away from him. His aim was off (probably because his vision was just about as distorted right now as it would be if he'd been drunk), but he still connected, most of his knuckles smacking into Nadia's left eye and cheekbone with a satisfying give of flesh. She'd been straddling his waist, but the blow knocked her off and sent her tumbling to the floor with a very human cry of pain.

"Not weak," Sam ground out, getting the hand he'd hit Nadia with underneath himself and managing to sit up, which sent a wave of crippling nausea rolling through him. He wasn't weak physically, at least. He realized that Nadia's slender wrist was still in his other hand, and it occurred to him that, maybe, he should try to break it. Just to slow her down. But she yanked her hand away before he could.

Her hair had fallen in a dark curtain over her face, but she swept it out of the way now, throwing it over her shoulder. She glared murderously at Sam, the left side of her face already starting to swell up.

"I'm sure it made you feel good, to hit me," she spat at him. "But it doesn't make a difference. I'm already in your system. You can't fight it off for more than a few minutes, and then you'll be moaning on the floor, totally helpless." Her eyes narrowed, glittering. "And  _then_  I'll bleed you dry. My first real meal in months."

"No," Sam said tiredly, wondering if he was going to throw up. He would've shaken his head, but that would have made vomiting a certainty. Nadia laughed at him, climbing back on top of him and learing down.

"I'm sorry, Sam, but you don't really have a say in this," she said, giving him a winning smile. He dragged the hand that he wasn't using to support himself across the floor, wincing at all the grit he found, and to his hip. His wrist brushed against something cool and metallic there, but before he could figure out what it was, Nadia grabbed two handfuls of his hair and slammed his head back to the ground.

He must have screamed. He didn't know for sure, because he blacked out when he hit. But the next thing he knew, his head was tipped to the side, and he was staring at the open door to Vaughn's cell. He'd forgotten to lock it when he left. Vaughn was standing in the doorway, mouth open and eyes wide with fear and shock. What little color he usually had in his face had drained away. As Sam watched him with his skewed, blurred vision, he began to tremble violently, and closed his mouth in order to swallow. He took a step forward, weakly starting, "Sam - "

"Vaughn, close the door," Sam interrupted, surprising himself with the strength of his own voice. "Get back in your room. Close the door, and stay there." When Vaughn froze, showing no signs of moving, he yelled in an effort to shock him into action. "Now! Right  _now_! Get back in your room!"

Vaughn did, with a frightened squeak accompanying him slamming his door. A hand grabbed Sam's chin and jerked his head straight so that the weight of it was resting on the painful, sticky knot on the back of it, just in time for him to see Nadia roll her eyes.

"He's a wraith, so I don't think I'd be able to drink him," she said. "But I want to kill him anyway. Just because he's your pet."

"Don't even think about it, bitch," Sam snarled with leftover heat, voice rough and husky with the effort of (he suddenly realized) not passing out. He wasn't sure if he was struggling against Nadia's venom, the concussion she'd just irritated, or a combination of the two. "Listen, Nadia. This is the one and only chance I'm gonna give you. Grab your blood, get back in your cell, and we'll just forget about this whole thing."

Nadia laughed, sounding genuinely amused. "Sam," she said with a grin, "do you really think that you're in any position to be offering  _me_  mercy?" She put her hands on his chest, cupping the shallow swells of his pectorals like they were in bed. At least he was wearing a T-shirt, so she wasn't going to give him another dose of her venom, which he wasn't sure he could've withstood. "You're not going to last much longer. I can see it in your eyes." She blew a strand of hair out of his face in a parody of tenderness. "Close them, and let go. You'll never wake up. You'll never want to."

She was right, Sam realized. Not about that last part - he could never believe that last part, or admit to it. But that he wouldn't last much longer. Every time his heart beat, it sent the crap that she had dumped into him deeper and deeper. He felt heavy, clumsy, and that wasn't entirely due to his head. His breathing was fast and fluttery. She'd put her hand on his face, which meant that the venom was probably already in his brain, and he could feel it, pressing down on his consciousness.

And he was half-hard. Given what Nadia was, it had to be because of what she'd done to him.

Sam's wrist was still pressed against the metal thing at his hip, the thing that couldn't be something as mundane as a belt buckle or a rivet on his jeans. Nadia was fixated on his face, seemingly fascinated, and he held her dark gaze as he fumbled with his hand. Her venoms tattoos were glowing slightly, he realized. Probably with excitement. The glow, a bright and energetic red, had extended to her eyes. His breath hitched with something that he couldn't let her know was fear, and his hand wrapped around the blade of a knife. A silver knife. The one that he kept in the top drawer of his bedside table and stuck in his belt every day as more of a force of habit than a safety precaution, even though silver could kill Vaughn, as a shapeshifter...and Nadia, too.

His wrist flicked as he pulled the knife free. Nadia was too intent on him to notice.

Sam could taste something familiar in his mouth, something he couldn't associate with anyplace but the bedroom. He didn't dare close his eyes, afraid of slipping completely into whatever fantasy Nadia's venom was digging out of the folds of his brain. He had to get rid of her - that was his very first priority. He was about to bring the knife up and ram it into her, but then he remembered that, in order to kill a djinn with a silver knife, that knife needed to be coated in lamb's blood.

Sam could have sobbed with frustration and despair. He wasn't even sure he had lamb's blood in the house right now, and even if there was, he had no hope of getting to it. He dragged the blade of his knife aimlessly across the floor, and his arm bumped into the plastic bottle that he'd dropped when Nadia tackled him, making its contents slosh back and forth. Its  _contents_. If the situation hadn't been so serious, Sam probably would've smacked himself in the face.

Nadia finally noticed that he had the knife when he lifted it (it felt like someone had tied a few of his heavier weights to his arms) and stabbed the blade down through the flexible plastic of the sports bottle with a  _pop_ ping noise. Sam's chest heaved with the effort, and his vision darkened to bedroom lighting. Nadia stared at the knife in the bottle, perplexed, then turned back to look at him and raised the eyebrow that he hadn't punched.

"Was that supposed to be symbolic?" she asked dryly.

"Hardly," Sam replied, right before he stabbed her in the heart.

It took less than a second, muscle memory taking over where his strength had failed. But it didn't feel that way to him. He had to lift the knife and wait for the bottle to slide off of it, pulled down by its own weight. He had to swing the knife over to Nadia, trailing sticky scarlet drops, some of which managed to land on his face. And then he had to actually put it in her. He couldn't remember if he could hit her anywhere or if the blow had to be to her heart, and he decided that he was better off safe than sorry. So he worked the knife past muscle, between bones, up underneath Nadia's left breast, and into her heart. And that was hard, too.

Nadia screamed. Sam was sure she tried to, at least. It came out as a choked gurgle, as her tattoos and her eyes flared brilliantly, and then all the light in them died away. Sam felt a plush mattress beneath him instead of the hardwood floor when her body toppled bonelessly off of him, knife still wedged under her breast. He didn't hear it when she hit the floor. He must be too far gone for that.

Sam realized, all of a sudden, that the demon hadn't said a word during his whole struggle with Nadia. That was only because his voice, mocking, cut through the haze that Sam was floating in now: "Just look at that. Straight through the heart - so  _precise_  Either you've had a lot of practice with ganking pretty girls, or you're a natural at it."

He couldn't even tell him to shut up. His eyes must have fallen closed, because he had to open them in order to see Vaughn. The wraith's terrified, nauseated expression didn't belong in the dark, luxurious bedroom setting that surrounded them.

"S-Sam - " he began, looking like he was holding back tears. Or vomit. Or both.

"Bathroom," Sam interrupted him, just like the last time they'd spoken. "Under the sink. Wooden box. There are a bunch of different vials in there. Find the one labeled 'lust djinn,' load a hypodermic with it, and inject it into me. Doesn't matter how much or where."

Vaughn shook his head, squeezing his eyes shut. "You killed Nadia," he said. "I c - "

"You're gonna have to, or else she's gonna end up killing me," Sam cut in fiercely. "You're scared. I get it. But I'm not gonna hurt you, and we'll talk about this as soon as…" Sam trailed off. "As soon as…" He glanced around the room. He could move his head now, because it didn't hurt anymore. "...Vaughn?"

He'd vanished. Now there was nothing but thick drapes and lush wallpaper. And the light from around a dozen candles, rosy and romantic.

Djinn were vampiric, and fed from their victims after placing them in a venom-induced trance. The most common variety had a poison that would grant your deepest desire, build a complex dream-world for you to keep you happy. There were some who cursed you with horrifying hallucinations and fed once you'd collapsed from exhaustion. Others, partial to the taste of fear in the blood, plunged you straight into your worst nightmare. Nadia's kind preferred the flavor that all the hormones of lust, arousal, and sex offered. And that was why Sam was hard, naked on a huge bed, and - he shook his wrists, above his head - handcuffed to a headboard.

"Who the hell," purred a sickeningly-familiar voice, "is Vaughn?"

Sam's eyes widened. He tugged frantically at the manacles around his wrists, but all that did was rattle the chain between them. Much like what the owner of that voice had done incessantly for several days after arriving. At least they didn't bite; the edges were lined with something that felt like velvet.

"Oh,  _hell_ , no," Sam muttered under his breath, drawing his legs up in an effort to cover himself. He felt a hand on one of his thighs, big and callused, and it took everything he had not to shudder with fear. "No, no, no,  _no_. I did  _not_  want this."

"Uh...okay?" Now the voice sounded much more confused than seductive, and Sam made the mistake of opening his eyes. The Knight of Hell, whom he knew for a fact was still chained, locked, and bound in his demon cell, was looking down at him with mild concern on his face. He wasn't all beat up anymore, or dirty, or bloody. He was just blond hair and creamy skin and freckles. Jeez, a lot of freckles. His vessel must have spent plenty of time in the sun before he took him. "Is this your way of telling me that you want the cuffs off? 'Cause it'd be a cinch to get rid of them."

"No!" Sam blurted, before he could think it through. He rocked his pelvis to the side, twisting his body and taking his folded legs away from the demon's deceptively-warm touch. "Uh...I-I mean…" None of this was real. He was trapped in a sick fantasy of his own making. The demon couldn't hurt him. "Don't touch me."

He ground his teeth in frustration. Apparently, his fear of the damn thing was so huge, after spending a little over a week with him, that he couldn't even handle this harmless, djinn-conjured version of him. He was pathetic.

The demon rolled his green eyes. Impossibly green - they froze Sam's heart in his chest with desire he hated himself for feeling.

"At least I know that being backed up makes you completely crazy now," he said with a dry smirk. He was kneeling on the soft mattress (maybe a pillowtop?) next to Sam, equally naked, and he was...impressive. That realization made Sam swallow past a suddenly-dry throat, distracted as the demon pulled his legs back over to himself. Gently. "C'mon, Sammy." He stroked one of Sam's thighs, and Sam stiffened as his blunt fingernails passed uncomfortably close to his femoral artery. "It's been years, hasn't it?" He planted a lingering kiss on Sam's kneecap before smiling at him, slow and lazy and sensual. "Don't you think you deserve for me to make you feel good?"

Sam shook his head, hard, and fought past the rising waves of arousal and want. Venom. Venom. It was all because of Nadia's venom. "Don't need you."

The demon chuckled, a throaty sound that finally got Sam shuddering - but not with fear. "That's, uh, not what you said about five minutes ago, darlin'." He was somehow managing to ease Sam's legs straight, with patient and gentle touches. "Have you really changed your mind so fast?"

"Yep," Sam managed through gritted teeth. Maybe, if he just kept rejecting the fake demon's advances, it would stop him from being sucked into the fantasy. He just had to wait it out until...what was he waiting for, again? "Just - just  _leave_."

There was another chuckle. Sam clamped his eyes shut and whined in the back of his throat. He wasn't here right now and none of this was real. The mattress wasn't shifting beneath him as the demon moved to kneel between his spread legs, the cuffs weren't holding his hands in place so that he couldn't even protect himself, and he wasn't so hard and swollen that it was painful. Though, actually...that last one probably was real, unfortunately.

"Whatever you say," the demon promised, amused. "But I don't think that  _this_  agrees with you." On "this," he tapped the precome-slick head of Sam's cock with one finger. Lightning bolts wracked his body, and he thought he might have screamed.

 _Need to figure out how to separate the aphrodisiac from the hallucinogen in this damn venom,_  Sam thought fuzzily.  _If I could sell it, I'd be rich._

He returned to himself, just barely, with a heroic mental wrench. The demon loomed over him, candlelight playing over his skin and gleaming in his eyes. The lines between Sam's emotions had blurred, and he wasn't sure if he was afraid anymore, or just desperately horny.

"My subconscious latched onto you," Sam said. His lips felt oddly numb as he spoke. "I've had a dry spell since I was seventeen, when my leg got ruined."

The demon arched an eyebrow, like he didn't know what Sam was talking about, but Sam ignored him and continued.

"Something in me thinks you're attractive," he said. "Which, y'know, I guess I can see...I can't believe you're seriously the best candidate in my life right now, though. It's gotta be completely physical. Whatever part of me wants to have sex with you is only interested because you're pretty."

He was rambling, and he was doing it on purpose. But he'd momentarily run out of things to say. As he scrambled for a new topic, the demon blinked slowly at him, then ran a hand through his short, stiff hair.

"Okay, I have no idea what you just said," he admitted. "Especially about your leg." Interest involuntarily piqued by that statement, Sam raised his head and looked at his legs. To his shock, both of his calves were identically rounded, smooth with undamaged muscle and flawless skin. But that made sense. What reason could there possibly be for him to be crippled in his own fantasy? "But I think you called me pretty, and that sounded a lot like a compliment." Sam quite literally stopped breathing when a hand wrapped around his twitching shaft. The demon winked coyly at him. "So how 'bout I show you how grateful I am for that?"

A wholly pathetic whimper fell out of Sam's open mouth. He was about to shake his head no, or at least try to, but then there was a hideous, stinging pain in the side of his neck. He cried out, and the demon's green eyes widened, before they turned a pale blue and his form dissolved into Vaughn, leaning over Sam. His hand was out of sight, probably wrapped around the hypodermic needle that he'd just sunk into Sam's neck. His red hair was limp with sweat, and his face was carefully blank, like he was feeling too much right now to choose just one emotion to express.

"Uhhhh…" Sam groaned as pain flooded back. His head, his leg...everywhere else. At least the cloying fog of Nadia's venom was rapidly lifting, since Vaughn seemed to have shot the antivenon straight into his carotid artery. He could feel the hard floor underneath himself, and the bedroom was gone, replaced by his cabin.

"Are y-you okay?" Right. Vaughn stuttered when he was freaked out. Sam had forgotten, because Vaughn hadn't been freaked out since he'd first been delivered to him. "Oh, g-god." He let go of the needle, leaving it in Sam's neck, and rocked backward to sit down with a heavy  _thud_. "You were d-dying. Y-you were moaning."

Vaughn obviously didn't know what Nadia's venom did. Sam decided that he didn't need to tell him.

"Had to do it," he said tiredly, very aware of Nadia's body lying limply next to him. She had bled, a pool spreading underneath her, and he was pretty sure that some of it had soaked into his clothes. "She wanted to kill me. She told me she was gonna kill you."

"She h-hurt y-you," Vaughn said shakily. Sam slowly pulled himself up into a sitting position and managed not to vomit in his own lap while he did so, which was reassuring. He reached up and plucked the hypodermic out of his neck. He wasn't feeling nearly as bad, physically, as he should if he had a concussion, so maybe he'd just hit his head really hard.

"Oh, sure, she hurt him, but I'm pretty sure she made up for it," the demon called from within his cell, voice raucous and smug and feeling a whole lot like a railroad spike being rammed through the bloody goose egg on the back of Sam's head. "Heard you moaning, Sammy. Did she pop herself into your head? Were you fucking her before or after you stabbed her?"

Sam glanced at Vaughn, whose mouth had fallen open in obvious shock and mortification. He reached forward and grabbed the doorframe of Nadia's cell, using it to steady himself as he got to his feet. Blood dripped off of him. The hypodermic that Vaughn had retrieved from the bathroom was still in his hand. He had to look like some sort of crazy murderer.

"Did you finish eating, Vaughn?" he asked softly. Vaughn shook his head.

"I d-don't want to," he said miserably. Sam nodded, able to understand that.

"All right," he said. "I think you should go back to your room now. Just put your brain outside and I'll clean it up."

Vaughn nodded, eyes distant. He got up, and though his legs looked too weak to support him at first, he managed. As he slipped into his room, Sam reached for him, putting a hand on his shoulder. Something inside of him warmed when the wraith didn't flinch away from his touch.

"Thank you," he said quietly. Vaughn nodded, looking impossibly tired all of a sudden, then pulled away and closed the door.

Sam had a huge mess to clean up. Nadia's blood, her body, her cell, the damaged bottle on the floor, and his own injuries. It was almost overwhelming, so he decided to focus on one thing at a time. And the first thing he chose to focus on was the hypodermic in his hand. He crossed the floor to throw it away in the kitchen trash can, leg aching worse than usual with stress and exertion, and unwittingly walked into the demon's field of sight.

"There's not a whole lotta difference between you and me, y'know." He sounded sly, and Sam didn't look at him as he dropped the empty needle into the trash. "Both of us are killers. Stone-cold." Sam opened one of his cabinets and brought down a stack of rags, worn and stained white by bleach. "You liked it, didn't you? Stabbing her? You don't have to lie, I felt it - your pleasure. You were just looking for an excuse, and she finally gave you one." Sam picked up two of the rags. "I bet you're already fantasizing about the wraith kid. How to do him in."

Sam balled the rags up in one of his hands and dug his keyring out of the pocket of his bloody jeans with the other. He limped across the floor, feeling his face settle into an expressionless mask before he reached the gate to the demon cell. The Knight grinned at him with black eyes.

"You do what you do because you like the pain," he told Sam while he was unlocking the door. "You like the death. You're a demon - only thing you're missing is the eyes."

Sam pushed the door open and walked in. The demon regarded him, and didn't look very impressed by what he saw. Reaching him, Sam grabbed his jaw and yanked it open, and then he looked surprised. Even when he'd burned him with the poker, Sam hadn't been quite this rough with him.

Sam stuffed one of his rags, the smaller of the two, into the demon's open mouth, his movements businesslike as he crammed the fabric down into his throat. The demon made a shocked, violated sound (which came out muffled, of course), and jerked back, glaring up at Sam with blank eyes. HIs mouth and throat worked, trying to push the rag out, and Sam leaned forward in order to bind the other rag around his mouth. He tightly knotted it behind his head, then stepped back. The demon violently shook his head and tried to scream past the gag.

"'M not like you," Sam murmured, turning away and slowly leaving the cell. "And it's really about time you shut up."


	9. Chapter Nine

_I can't run, I can't stand for more than ten minutes, I can barely walk. The can mocks me over there in the corner of my room, and then of course I don't use it, and I fall into bed at the end of the day and hate myself for how bad it hurts. It seizes up. It cramps. It spasms. I can't wear shorts (not like I ever did before), not even here, because then you can see the scars and the damage to the muscle. Even in jeans, I limp, so you can tell._

_I don't get many visitors, and so many people know what happened to me. But so many others don't, and they ask, and I have to live through it all over again. Just like I do every time I wake up and the muscle has decided to shrink itself down to the size of a quarter._

_I live with constant pain. And that's really not what I wanna bitch about here, because that's nothing new with hunters. That's nothing new with_ people. _Leukemia, fibromyalgia, phantom pain, arthritis, Crohn's disease, hell, even grief. Emotional pain. Even if Dad had just stayed a mechanic, he would have kept hurting over what happened to his wife for the rest of his life. Every day. Just like he actually did, in the profession that he chose._

_What I can't stand is the constant weakness that I also live with. That's what forced me out of the field, and that's what I hate. If something tracked me down up here, I wouldn't be able to run away from it. I'd take one step and fall down. Get eaten or turned or whatever._

_It gives out on me if I bump into something with it. It won't take my weight, some mornings. There's a bottle of painkillers in the bathroom just in case I can't handle it. And the cane - don't even get me started on the fucking_ cane _._

_This is as good as it's going to get. I'm twenty-three, and I can't really use one of my legs, and I won't be able to use it until I die. In this cabin, because I'm stuck here and I'm never going to be able to leave._

_There's nothing else for me. And I owe all of that to my leg, and what it isn't capable of anymore because of that damn wendigo._

-  _Personal journal of Sam Winchester_

* * *

There was no sign of what had happened the Nadia the morning after. Sam's wooden floor was old and hard enough that whatever porous quality it used to have had long since vanished, so it had been easy to scrub the blood away without leaving a stain. The bottle had been thrown away, along with Nadia's few clothes, and he'd stripped her cot in order to wash the bedding. The door of her cell was standing open to let it air out. He'd straightened up the bathroom where Vaughn had made a mess looking for the antivenon. He'd washed the blood, both his own and Nadia's, off of himself and out of his hair, and iced the swollen, bruised knot on the back of his head, making it shrink and the pain diminish.

Nadia's body, he burned. On a pyre out in the back yard, near the safe edges of his circular property, wrapped in a sheet, kindled with his and her blood-soaked clothes. He buried the ashes once it'd burned down, which took hours and seemed to plunge his left leg into a bath of undiluted acid. He gave every monster that came to him a hunter's funeral, partly so that they wouldn't be dug up by wild animals or overzealous collectors, partly so that they wouldn't dig themselves up and come after him - there was a surprising number of creatures who just didn't stay dead.

He used to perform autopsies out in the shed, drawing diagrams and taking notes as he went. But he told himself that he already knew plenty about djinni as he touched the flame of his lighter to the gasoline-soaked wood in front of him.

Sam tossed that lighter onto his desk when he staggered in around midnight, dragging a useless and agony-stricken leg behind him. Vaughn's door was firmly locked and closed, and his untouched meal had been disposed of. The demon was still gagged, and Sam had no doubt that he was staring him down mercilessly, but he couldn't see his eyes in the darkness. Sam crammed the clothes he'd swapped his bloody ones out for earlier into his washer, showered off all the dirty of grave-digging, and somehow got himself into bed. Where he slept uninterrupted for a full twelve hours, much like he had the night after he'd burned the demon with the poker.

He rose like a zombie when he first opened his eyes, pushed through the pain in his leg in order to pull on his noise-cancelling headphones and leave his room, and walked into Elspeth the banshee's cell. There was really only one thing he still needed to learn about her, as he had reminded himself yesterday, and he'd written it down by the time he left the cell again.

Sam went through all the little rituals that were supposed to make him feel human again every morning once he'd finished with the McClouds' banshee. Eating breakfast, showering, shaving, brushing all the knots and tangles out of his hair, getting dressed. He even spent around fifteen minutes working at his leg with patient hands and a bottle of lotion, relaxing the shapes that last night's work had twisted his torn muscles into.

It was early afternoon when he crossed the floorboards he'd scrubbed Nadia's blood off of yesterday, a bowl of steaming spinal fluid and brain in his hands. He unlocked the door to Vaughn's cell, but knocked as politely as he could before opening it.

It was immediately obvious that Vaughn had thrown up sometime during the night. Sam could smell it, even with the thick stripe of mentholatum he'd painted under his nose while thawing the brain he was currently carrying. Walking over to Vaughn's cot, where he was still cocooned in his blankets and pillows, he set the bowl down on his TV tray in an unintentional repeat of yesterday.

"How're you doing?" Sam asked softly. Vaughn rolled over, looking up at him with eyes that looked slightly swollen. Clearly, he hadn't been asleep for at least a few hours. "You sick?" He turned his head and nodded to a mostly-dry puddle of thin bile in the corner.

Vaughn shook his head, sitting up. He kept his plush comforter wrapped around him, though, Sam noticed. "No," he said softly. "I'm okay. I was just…I heard you come in, last night. After you were done with Nadia. And I thought about how much blood there was when she was…" He scrubbed a hand almost aggressively through his hair. It didn't help a case of bedhead that rivaled Sam's own when he'd first gotten up this morning. "Laying there. After you'd stabbed her." He said it bluntly, then looked up at Sam and squinted at him. "I would've starved to death by now if I was out on my own and I had to hunt people and stuff. I puked just because I was thinking about blood – no way could I drill a hole in somebody's skull and suck their brain."

"Well, you're just not used to stuff like that," Sam replied. He was still emotionally drained from Nadia's death himself, and wasn't sure that he'd be able to help Vaughn through a breakdown right now. There was a reason he wasn't a parent. Or, well, actually, there was a metric fuck-ton of reasons, but his emotional issues were one of them. "A lot of people would say that that's a good thing."

"Yeah, but I'm a predator," Vaugh replied. "I'm supposed to like blood and gore and stuff, right?" He tugged his blanket cocoon down around his waist, and folded his hands in his lap. "Did you come in here to kill me?"

Sam probably would have been less shocked if Vaughn had just hauled off and punched him in the face. "Excuse me?"

"The banshee's gone," Vaughn said matter-of-factly. "I felt her just…" He trailed off, and made a "poof"-ing gesture with his hands. Sam reached up and rubbed at his face.

"Elspeth's…dormant," he said tiredly. "I found a lot of theories about how to neutralize a banshee. The only thing left to do with her was to test them, and one worked. The book's done." He lowered himself, gingerly, onto Vaughn's cot. "I was planning to finish up with her today anyway. What happened with Nadia yesterday had nothing to do with it – I'm not getting rid of you."

"What about the demon?" Vaughn asked. He'd been staring down at his hands, but now he looked up at Sam, which Sam took as a good sign.

"I wish I knew how to get rid of him," Sam replied, struggling not to roll his eyes. "Especially because I have to go interrogate him before Gordon starts riding my ass about it again. Which means taking out his gag."

"You gagged him?" Vaughn asked, raising his eyebrows, and, for some godforsaken reason, Sam felt guilty.

"I had to," he said sullenly. "I…couldn't bring myself to, before. Because his throat was so messed up when he first came to me. But I had to last night. You heard what he was saying."

Vaughn nodded, slightly, then said, "He hurts."

Sam shook his head. "He's a demon. He can't."

"Well, he does," Vaughn insisted. "It's not as bad as it used to be, but…he still hurts."

"And how the hell do you know?" Sam asked, unconvinced. Vaughn just shrugged. "Okay." He stood up, and nodded to the bowl on the TV tray. "You need to eat. I'll clean up that." He waved a hand at the corner where the wraith had thrown up, then walked out of the cell.

Sam could only kill so much time scrubbing the floor of Vaughn's cell and cleaning out the bowl that today's brain had been in. He felt the demon's eyes on him the entire time, burning a hole in his back, and he ignored him as he gathered what he'd need. A notebook – he was planning on another book, since he was sure that hunters besides Gordon would find information on how to hurt a Knight of Hell useful. A Bible. A book of exorcism rituals. Holy water. Salt. He paused next to the umbrella stand by the door, eyeing the poker that he'd returned to its place after the last time he'd used it, then grimaced and kept limping. He knew that all he'd done was coax a handful of crocodile tears out of the demon, but they'd hit him hard, and he wouldn't be able to use iron on him today.

Everything was tucked neatly under one arm as he unlocked the gate and stepped into the cell, perfectly calm. He planned on taking everything that he was carrying with him when he left, unlike the last time he'd done this. The demon sat up straight with exaggerated movements as Sam walked towards him. Obviously unable to say anything, he leered at him with eyes that had suddenly gone black. Coming to a stop, Sam cocked an eyebrow.

"Cat got your tongue?" he asked pleasantly. The demon growled in the back of his throat, a savage, animal sound that sent an involuntary twinge of fear singing down Sam's spine. He hid it by laying out all his equipment on the floor where he could easily reach it. It occurred to him that, maybe, he should have brought a table in here, but he didn't have any small enough to serve the purpose. "You're gonna be getting my undivided attention from now on – you just became my main project." He scooped up the Bible. Its leather binding was scarred, the gold leaf that spelled out its title mostly worn away. He paged through it often. In search of lore and passages specifically designed to hurt unholy things, rather than any sort of guidance. Sam believed in God – it was sort of hard not to, when you'd received direct proof of the existence of angels. He just didn't believe in worshiping the bastard. "Which means that, until I figure out how to either kill you or put your smoky ass back where it belongs, I'm gonna be pulling out every trick in the book to squeeze as much information outta you as I possibly can."

The demon's jaw worked, and Sam guessed he was indicating the gag, asking how he expected to get information out of him if he couldn't even talk. One side of Sam's mouth quirked up in a humorless smile.

"That'll come out eventually," he promised. And "eventually" was a long ways off, if he could help it. "First, though, we're gonna go back to figuring out what hurts you and what doesn't. And I'd really appreciate it if you didn't cry this time – all that's gonna do for you is dehydrate your vessel."

The demon's eyes, still an unbroken black, narrowed. Sam cracked open the Bible in his hands and flipped through the fragile pages with practiced fingers, looking for a specific passage.

"So, normal demons don't react well when I read to them from this book," Sam said, voice taking on an automatic businesslike quality as his eyes swept across the tiny print. "They don't like the Torah or the Quran, either, which I guess makes sense, 'cause all of those draw from the basic mythology that you guys are part of. It didn't matter what language – the words seem to burn them." He found what he was looking for, and tapped the page in triumph. "But I'm curious to see what the effect is gonna be on you, since you're not exactly a normal demon."

There was no response, besides a slow and somehow apathetic blink. Sam sucked on the inside of his lower lip, then returned his gaze to the book and started to read. It was a standard passage (technically a psalm) he used with demons, painful to them because it was a commendation of God, and he probably could have recited it from memory. But there was still the intimidation factor to think of, and there was more theatricality to reading than reciting.

"'Yea, though I walk through the Valley of the Shadow of Death, I shall fear no evil…"

He shut up before he even reached the end of it, since it was pretty obvious to him that it wasn't having any effect on the demon. When he raised his eyes from the text in order to glance at him, he looked bored, obsidian eyes heavy-lidded and posture slouched. Definitely not bothered by what Sam was saying. So he cut himself off, flipped a few pages, and tried again.

After reading off a couple of more intense passages that did about as much good as the first one, Sam closed the Bible and snorted softly, eyeing the gagged demon.

"Well, aren't you special," he said, setting it down and replacing it with his notebook. He dug a pencil out of his pocket, lowered himself to the floor, and started scribbling. As per usual, it didn't take him long to lose himself in noting down his observations. But he was broken out of it when the demon began to make loud, realistic gagging sounds. That must be the only way he could be annoying, without being able to talk.

Sam looked up at him and raised another eyebrow. "I honestly expected you to act a little more…dignified," he told him dryly. "I mean, you're a  _Knight_ , after all." He set his notebook aside (he was done writing for the moment, anyway) and stood up, the book of exorcisms in his hand. "I guess you wanna go back to it. We can do that."

The exorcism rituals, when Sam started reading one of his personal favorites off the pages, yielded a much greater result than the Biblical quotes had. The demon immediately got antsy, blinking rapidly and squirming against his bonds. He grunted, the sound so loud that Sam could hear it even over his own voice, then squeezed his eyes shut. When he opened them again a few seconds later, they were green, but only briefly. Black flooded them again soon, a reaction to the Latin that Sam was pouring onto him.

"…incursio infernalis adversii. Omnis congregatio et secta diabolica…"

Sam stayed where he was, calmly reading rite after rite and watching the demon's apparent discomfort mount, until whatever the exorcisms were doing to him seemed to reach its peak. His head bowed suddenly, and Sam felt sure that he would have doubled over if the straps around his chest hadn't prevented him from doing so. He started coughing. Sam felt a sudden spark of uneasy excitement, thinking that, maybe, he was being forced out of his host. So, on one hand, he'd figured out how to ship this particular breed of demon back to Hell. On the other, he hadn't actually learned anything else about Knights, and he'd be lucky if Gordon didn't skin him and wear him as a jacket. Still speaking Latin, reading aloud from the book, Sam stepped forward, reached out, and yanked the first rag, the one that had been around his mouth, off of the demon. The second promptly fell into his lap, the end of it flecked sparsely with red and brown. He raised his head to look at Sam, clamping his lips tightly together, but when they parted, black smoke didn't pour out of his mouth. Only a thin dribble of bloody saliva did, really more pink than red. He didn't even manage to launch it at Sam this time.

"What is it with you," Sam asked, lifting the rag in his hand and using it to roughly wipe the demon's chin clean, "and spitting at me?"

"Seems to bother you," the Knight rasped out. His voice was much rougher than usual, making him sound like he'd been gargling with sand – or maybe a dry rag. "Mouth's too dry for it right now, though. Water?"

"I've got plenty," Sam replied neutrally, turning on order to nod at the silver flask sitting on the floor.

"Bastard," the demon accused, before his head dropped and he let out another hacking, gagging cough. Sam was unmoved. He didn't need water to wet his mouth and throat – he could draw on the reserves of his vessel easily enough. When he was finished coughing, he jerked his head at the book in Sam's hand, telling him, "Not gonna work. Not on me."

"Yeah, I'd kinda figured that out," Sam replied, closing the book and taking a few steps back. He set it down next to the Bible, then straightened back up to regard the demon with what he hoped was a perfectly blank expression on his face. "Why is that? Just because you're a Knight of Hell? Too high up on the totem pole to get chased out by a little Latin?" He folded his arms. "Or did you lock yourself in your vessel somehow?" That would actually make sense, given that the rites had had an effect on him but hadn't booted him. But if he had a seal on him somewhere, it was one hell of a coincidence that Sam hadn't found it yet; he was missing his shirt and one leg of his jeans, after all.

The demon smirked, black coiling back into his pupils and leaving his eyes human again, and smugly rasped, "Wouldn't you like to know."

"I would, actually," Sam answered. "Which is why you and I are gonna play a little game." He bent, then stood with the flask of holy water in one hand and his canister of rock salt in the other. "I'm gonna ask you some questions. You're gonna answer. If you're a smartass or if I think you're lying…" He shook the containers for emphasis. "You get splashed with one of these. Maybe both, if I'm feeling like it." He opened both, movements deft enough to inspire a brief flash of self-pride, and stepped forward again. "So. First question: why can't I exorcise you?"

"Forgot to pop a Viagra beforehand?" the demon suggested. Sam wasted no time in splashing holy water onto his chest, prompting a hiss from both him and the steam that suddenly billowed upwards. "Son of a – " He cut himself off, clamping down on his tongue with his vessel's perfect white teeth. His eyes had flashed black again, and he glared at Sam with them.

"Why can't I exorcise you?" Sam repeated calmly.

"'M just that damn special." This time, it was salt, large grains sticking to the water on the demon's chest and burning into him. He swore loudly, squeezing his eyes shut and grimacing, and Sam waited for his reaction to die down before speaking again.

"For, supposedly, the most powerful demon out there," he said, "you really don't have a very high pain threshold, do you?" He crossed his arms, which was a little awkward since his hands were full. "Again: why can't I exorcise you?"

"Part of it's 'cause I'm a Knight." The demon's voice seemed to be steadily getting stronger, less raspy. Sam considered going for his notebook, then decided he'd be able to remember what he was saying. "I'm stronger than other demons. I can dig my claws in a lot deeper. And then part of it's 'cause this vessel's special to me."

"Special?" Sam asked, frowning. "How is it special?"

"Guess you could say that it's just really close to me," the demon said with an exaggerated smile. Sam's frown deepened, but then a possibility clicked for him.

"Are you – are you trying to tell me that you're riding one of your relatives?" he demanded, disgust creeping into his voice before he could check it. "Was this guy – " He gestured to the freckle-covered vessel with the canister of salt " – your cousin, when you were alive? Your nephew? Your  _son_?"

The demon bounced his eyebrows at Sam. "Hey, look at that, you know where demons come from. Good for you…a relative." He glanced up at the ceiling, appearing to think it over, then shrugged. "Yeah, you could probably call it that."

Sam's fingers tightened on the flask, but he forced control on himself. He couldn't punish the demon for doing something he didn't like – that wasn't how interrogation worked. But the demon must have been able to pick up on what was running through his head, because he grinned suddenly.

"Oh, you don't like that, do you?" he guessed. "You were a hunter before something took a bite outta you and made you useless." He nodded to Sam's bad leg. "Born and raised, from the way you carry yourself. Which means you had the importance of  _family_  stomped into you whenever there was an opportunity. Don't trust anyone but. No one else matters. So the idea of me going after what used to be my own flesh and blood just bothers the  _hell_  outta you." He made a show of looking around, hitting all the directions that he could. "But where's your family now that it takes you half an hour to cross a room?"

Sam swallowed, and didn't give him the satisfaction of an answer to that question. Instead, he stiffly asked, "What condition is your vessel's soul in?"

"Don't know what you're talking about," the demon answered smoothly. "Ain't nobody in here but me."

Sam squeezed the holy water, but the demon's words had the unfortunate, sickening ring of truth to them, and the rules that he'd laid down himself wouldn't let him punish him for that. But he got plenty of chances to fling salt and holy water at him later, because the honesty definitely didn't last. Getting any information at all out of the demon was like pulling teeth, and every real answer that Sam did manage to get was hard-won. He moved agonizingly slowly down his list of questions.

"You were stabbed with a knife that hasn't ever failed to put a demon down before. Why didn't it kill you?"

"Why are your eyes black when only the most run-of-the-mill demons have black eyes?"

"What, exactly, makes you a Knight of Hell?"

"What were you doing here when Gordon caught you?"

"What's going on? Why are there so many demons up here?" (Because several hunters, over the last few days, had hinted at that while talking to him over e-mail and IM – not just Gordon.)

"Are you really the last Knight? Or are there others?"

The rock salt and holy water that Sam splashed onto his face and chest again and again, trying to get him to realize that just answering his questions would be a whole lot easier on him, made him grunt and twist and clench his jaw. But whatever unpleasant feeling it gave him (not pain, Sam had to keep firmly reminding himself, as the demon sucked in air after each wave of water, that his kind didn't feel pain) obviously wasn't enough to motivate him.

"What does it take to make a Knight of Hell?"

Sam suspected that this newfound stoicism might be because of his pain threshold comment. The demon, a creature born of, potentially, centuries of unimaginable torture (assuming Knights were made basically the same way as the others), was proving to him that he wasn't anywhere near as weak as Sam had accused him of being. He could see an odd parallelism between the two of them. He didn't like it.

"Is there any class of demon more powerful than you? Where are you in relation to the Lords?"

Sam knew that he didn't need to breathe. But he was putting on a show for him anyway, hunched over as far as his bonds would allow him to be, panting raggedly, an expression of fatigue fixed on his face. His eyes, still black with all the abuse he'd been receiving, looked glossier than they had before. When he didn't say anything at all, much less something that could be contributed as an answer to Sam's question, Sam pursed his lips and brought the silver flask up again. But this time, nothing came out of it. He blinked down at it, and resisted the urge to shake it upside down to make sure that it really was all gone. He'd known that the supply was getting a little low, but this flask was much bigger than the others, and he couldn't believe that he'd managed to use the whole thing.

"All gone?" The demon's voice was a little raspier again, now. Like he was losing the strength to treat the dryness in his mouth and throat. He raised his head, regarding Sam dully. "You know what they'd call that in the Pit? Ambition." He half-heartedly shrugged wet, salt-covered shoulders. "Or motivation. Either way, you would've caught Alastair's eye by now. Probably been promoted."

"Alastair?" Sam asked. It was a name he'd heard before. He knew it belonged to a demon, and not much else. "Who's Alastair?"

Once again, the demon didn't even try to answer. Just closed his eyes and tiredly shook his head. So Sam reacted exactly the way he'd told him he would earlier: he dumped salt onto him, where holy water had already matted his close-cropped hair to his skull.

He screamed through clenched teeth and shook his head wildly, trying to get rid of the salt, but most of the grains stuck to him. His face was already wet, but now more moisture was squeezing out from between his tightly-shut eyelids, just a few tears that couldn't be real. A strong, bony hand gripped and strangled Sam's heart anyway, though. He found himself suddenly unable to breathe. Especially when the demon spit out, "You should ask him for a fucking  _application_. They always need more torturers in Hell."

Sam stood there as the demon slowly calmed down, blankly watching his muscles unknot themselves and his exhausted body go limp against the chains and straps (but demons didn't get tired). An empty flask in one hand and a mostly-empty canister in the other, he was still for a few long minutes, thoughts running in familiar circles. Finally, he came to a decision and turned around, bending over to pick up everything he'd brought into the cell with him. And giving the demon a near-perfect view of his denim-clad ass, he realized inanely, but he just couldn't see him caring about that.

He heard a muttered curse directed at him as he left, but it was too weary to have any real bite to it, so he didn't let it bother him as he put everything back in its place. Then gathered up supplies that he really shouldn't be wasting on a demon. When he returned to the cell with a stack of clean washcloths, a stainless steel bowl of warm, soapy water, and the first-aid kit, the demon stared him down with human eyes.

"Working off your guilt again?" he asked, upper lip twitching with a weak sneer. Sam didn't answer.

The first thing he had to do was wipe away all the salt and holy water, though it seemed to have stopped burning him about a minute after it hit him. Most of his bandages, which had been on him for too long, anyway, had been soaked by Sam's interrogation techniques, and he peeled them away once the skin around them was dry and free of salt.

"This doesn't make you a good person," the demon said quietly. Sam had just scrubbed his vessel's dirty-blond brush cut dry, and it stuck up in haphazard spikes and tufts as he moved down to dab away the blood that had oozed out from between the stitches that he'd put in his stab wound several days ago. "You might be able to trick yourself into feeling better by playing doctor with me, but  _I_  know what you are. And I think you know, too. Since you spent the last ninety minutes hurting me and liking it so much that you didn't even notice when you ran out of holy water."

"Your ribs are looking a lot better," Sam replied, voice detached. He just had to keep his focus on bruised flesh and broken bones and skin puckered by stitches, rather than what the demon was saying to him. "So's this." Two fingers swaddled in a washcloth stained with blood, he gently tapped the stab wound in the demon's solar plexus. "I'll probably be able to take the stitches out in a few more days. Gordon really tore you up."

"I'm planning on going after him just as soon as I finish up with you," the demon answered. A ripple ran through the sculpted muscle of his torso in response to Sam's prodding, which he suspected was a wince. A fake one, of course. "You're a real son of a bitch…but  _he's_  something else. With you, I'll probably just be satisfied after I rip your throat out. With my teeth." He bared them. They needed brushing; dried blood, brown and black, had collected in thin lines between them. "Him, though. Gordon. I wanna feed him his own intestines before he dies."

"That's actually something I've heard other demons say before," Sam replied. "They want people they hate to eat their own guts. You guys seem to be fixated on that – it's like you all have some sort of entrail fetish. Like Jeffrey Dahmer." Or was it Ted Bundy? One of them, he knew, had played with the spilled guts of roadkill as a child, but he was a whole lot fuzzier on human monsters than inhuman ones. There wasn't any need for him to study serial killers. "Okay. The swelling's gone down in your knee, but I'm pretty sure that it's still hurt bad." He'd just unwrapped it. "I don't think it's good for it to be bent all the time. I'll get a chair or something to put your foot up later." For now, he just undid the strap around the demon's ankle.

"I'd heal just fine, if you left me alone," the demon said. His eyes burned into the skin of Sam's face like green embers. "Everything's coming back. All my power. You won't be able to keep me in here for long." Sam stood and pulled the wet bandages off of the demon's throat. It looked like it had almost totally healed, so he probably didn't need to wrap it up again. After all, he was talking. "I'm weak right now, from all the shit Gordon did to me. That's the only reason you can hurt me." Sam turned in order to toss the soggy bandages onto the growing pile next to the first-aid kit. "But even with how I am right now, I'm nowhere near as weak as  _you_."

He punctuated the last word by slamming the booted foot of his injured leg, the one Sam had just barely freed, into Sam's scarred calf. His vision flashed completely black, hot agony bursting across it like fireworks. He heard someone screaming and sobbing from a distance, and only realized that it was him when he came back to himself, sprawled out on the cement floor with his chin stinging and the taste of blood in his mouth. His elbows and the heels of his hands were scraped up, and his ribs ached. He must have hit the bowl of soap and water on the way down and tipped it over, because his side was wet and cold.

And his leg. His leg was wrapped in razor wire that had been heated almost to the point of melting, then cooled down slightly in a vat of acid. It was pain so hideous and overwhelming that it seemed to crush down on his lungs, making it impossible for him to take a full breath, and rip through his brain, so that he couldn't think straight. He tried to scream again, but the heel of the demon's boot suddenly came down on his flaming calf and ground into the muscle, and the shock meant that it came out as weak as a kitten's first cry.

"Whatsa matter?" the demon hissed. Sam couldn't believe that he could hear it, over the frantic pounding of his own heart. "Can't take what your kind dish out?"

The floor was wet, riddled with leaf-choked puddles of stagnant rain water. The air stank heavily of rock salt and rotting flesh. Filthy claws, razor-sharp, were buried in his calf, pulling once-strong muscle into hamburger meat, and his blood pumped out into the water. Sam raked at the cement beneath him, tearing his fingernails ragged in the process, and somehow dragged himself away from the claws. He crawled towards the light, tears of pain and fear clouding his vision.

"Coward!" the demon shouted at him, furious. "Get your sorry ass back here and finish what you fucking started!"

Sam couldn't stand. His leg was useless. He hadn't seen the damage yet, but he knew that. Trying to get to his feet would be a waste of time, and mere seconds could make the difference between life and death. There were strange markings in the stone of the floor, runes and carvings that bit at the bare skin of his hands and forearms, but he couldn't worry about them right now. He had to get out. It couldn't follow him into the sun – he'd be safe there.

"Yeah, that's it, crawl," the wendigo taunted. "Like a damn cockroach. Can't even take one kick. How the hell'd you kill the djinn?"

"Dad," Sam croaked. That was all he could manage. And he knew that he was already dead, because he'd seen the thing swipe him across the torso and send him flying into the cavern wall with a  _crunch_  of breaking bones, the pink ribbons of his intestines unspooling in the air. He was alone, now. And he was probably going to die here, too.

"Crying for your daddy, now?" He reached a hand out in front of him and touched the cool iron of the gate that covered the cave entrance. "Is he the one who dumped you here to rot with us monsters after he'd milked all the worth outta you he could possibly get?" The pain ran waves and roots up his leg, spreading itself out into his entire body. It was deep enough to make him sick, but he held back the vomit that was rising in his throat, knowing that he couldn't afford to throw up all over himself right now. "Maybe he thinks you're one of us." Sam shoved the gate, unlocked, open. "Maybe it makes him sick to look at you, and that leg of yours." He heaved himself over the threshold, sure that he was leaving behind a trail of blood that would lead the wendigo right to him once the sun set. "Maybe all of them hate you like that, 'cause of your leg, and 'cause they can see that, deep down inside…you're just like me."

Sam was out, in the sunlight, he was laying limply on hard floorboards, instead of in the needle, twig, and cone litter that he'd thought would carpet the pine forest outside the cave. That was weird, but okay. His leg had gone blissfully numb, which he knew was probably a bad sign, but he couldn't stop relief from flooding him.

"I'm going to kill you. No one'll find you for weeks, and when they do, no one'll care that you're dead."

That was the very last thing Sam heard the wendigo (demon? Was it a demon?) say, before he passed out from exhaustion and (he assumed) blood loss.


	10. Chapter Ten

_Demons choose their vessels for a wide variety of reasons. Convenience, for one. When they first come out of the pit, they might be desperate enough to grab the first human they see, regardless of gender, age, race, or other factors. They might want a vessel with a special talent, such as strength or speed. If they remember what they looked like when they were human (which is pretty rare, especially with older demons), they might want a vessel that resembles them. And then, sometimes, they choose whichever vessel we, as hunters, are least likely to hurt. A little kid, or a young woman, or someone in a wheelchair. This is just one of many ways demons will try to trick mercy out of you, and if you're going to hunt them – and you're probably gonna have to at some point in your career, with all the demons cropping up lately – then you can't fall for any of them._

_If the demon can keep its vessel alive, it'll usually have enough moisture to squeeze out at least a few tears every once in a while. Usually right before you start in on an exorcism ritual, or an interrogation. They'll plead, beg, sob, do and say whatever they think will make you hesitate. The second you start feeling any sympathy for a demon you've got in a devil's trap, though, is the second that the demon wins. And then you, and everyone with you, are as good as dead._

_Demons are some of the smartest, most dangerous creatures you'll ever come across. A handful are almost as old as humanity itself, which means that they're some of our first monsters, along with dragons and the Leviathan. They were never intended to be underestimated – or pitied. A demon is concentrated sin. Pure evil. Everything bad in a human soul, twisted further into something even worse by torture and a long stay in Hell. Always keep that in mind, even when a demon is crying out in pain. It isn't real, and you're not going to gain anything by falling for it, except failure and, eventually, death._

_Your kindness, your humanity, is nothing more than a tool that demons (and other monsters, for that matter) can use to hurt you. And let me drum this into you now: they have no intention of paying you back for sparing their life or letting them go. This is a species that has no concept of gratitude or compassion; it's all been tortured out of them._

\- Demons and Other Biblical Monsters _, Sam Winchester_

* * *

The pills were chalky and bitter where they sat on Sam's tongue, their lack of any sort of coating glaringly obvious as he filled a plastic cup with water and wrestled with his gag reflex. When it was full and he could finally gulp them down, he eagerly did so, sure that he would have puked if he'd had to keep them in his mouth for so much as another second. The taste of them was still there, though. Laying like a film over the back of his tongue.

He drained the glass, trying to get rid of it, but water seemed to have no effect on the taste. So there was nothing else he could do for it right now. He'd already eaten breakfast and brushed his teeth, and he was pretty sure that he couldn't stomach anything else with more flavor than water right now. It was just going to be another bad day, then, but it wasn't like he hadn't already known that. Grunting with the effort, Sam pushed off of the bathroom counter, which he'd been leaning against, and grabbed for the handle of his cane.

It was actually pretty nice-looking, without sacrificing any of its functionality to beauty. It had been custom-made for him by a hunter he'd helped out about four years ago, a very grateful man with no little talent for woodworking. Carved from ash, heavily polished and glossed, it had apparently cracked in some pretty interesting ways while the wood was drying out. So the guy had decided to plug them with hot copper instead of starting over, creating an effect that Sam was exceedingly fond of. The handle was shaped almost perfectly to his hand and fingers, it was exactly the height he needed, and it was more than strong enough to support his full weight without a single creak. There was no rubber cap at the bottom – just a large, solid knob that could crush a humanoid skull. Sam had needed no explanation to understand that this cane was meant to double as a weapon.

He'd been thrilled when he received the finished product. Well, not "thrilled," exactly, but still pretty happy to be able to toss the ugly metal thing he'd been using since he got off of the crutches. His dependence on a cane had waned slowly as the last of the infection cleared up and he healed in earnest, until he reached a point where he only needed it every once in a while, when his leg was really bad.

Like today, for example.

Sam left the bathroom. A very long, very hot shower had quieted whatever was ripping up his leg from the inside, but it was still too depressingly weak to put weight on. Not for the first time, he wished that he had a tub, so he could've soaked it. He took the bottle of painkillers with him, sure that he'd need it again later and really not feeling like going back to the bathroom to get it.

A few bottles of water. A box of crackers. A couple apples. He just needed to get all those things, and then he could spend the rest of the day sleeping in his room. At least until Vaughn had to be fed, but he'd deal with that when the time came.

He crossed the floor. It was slow, painful going. He hadn't had to get the cane out in a while (which was probably a good thing, considering that his last use had ended with him sinking into a frustration-and-rage-fueled meltdown), so the muscles of his left shoulder and bicep were already protesting the unfamiliar strain. He'd be aching for days, even once he could walk on his own again. The bottle of pills that the fingers of his right hand were clenched around rattled with every difficult step. He didn't even realize he'd entered the demon's line of sight until he called out to him.

"Well, good morning, there, Dr. House."

Sam stopped, and glanced into the cell, blinking. The loud, almost warm greeting had caught him completely off-guard, and all he could think to say was, "You don't watch that."

The demon shrugged at him. "I've been back on Earth for a while now. Might not spend too much time watching TV, but who says I can't pick up on pop culture?" He shifted in the chair that he was strapped to. "I thought you died last night."

"Sorry to disappoint you," Sam replied with a humorless snort, turning back in the direction of the kitchen. Something suddenly occurred to him, and even though he knew that it'd be a spectacularly bad idea to engage the demon in conversation, he was just too curious now to let it go. "Can't you hear my heartbeat?"

"What the hell d'you think I am?" the demon replied, looking nearly indignant. "I'm not a vampire. Maybe I can hear it when you're a few feet away from me, but outside this shithole you've got me in?" He shook his head. "No way. I did hear you wake up after a while and drag yourself into your bedroom, though."

Where he'd spent the night on the floor, too weak with pain and exhaustion to lift himself up into his bed. He'd never been more grateful for the thick rugs that he'd laid down over the wooden floorboards, though he didn't actually do much sleeping. Curiosity satisfied, Sam leaned on his cane and took a laborious step in the direction of the kitchen, but the demon stopped him by calling out again.

"Hey." Sam ignored him, and continued moving. Whatever he wanted, it couldn't possibly be good. "Hey. Conan."

Sam glanced over his shoulder, still-damp hair swishing over the back of his neck. He thought about telling the demon he had a name, which he knew, then decided that he preferred the nicknames to hearing his real name come out of his mouth.

"You didn't watch that, either," he said, shaking his head,

"Saw it when it hit the theaters, actually," the demon replied, then continued before Sam's tired brain could sort out the implications of that. "C'mere. Gimme a look at that cane."

Sam snorted again, and shook his head. "Like hell." Pun completely intended. "I'm not coming anywhere near you ever again." Kitchen. He had to get to the kitchen, then back to his room. "Leave me alone."

"Wanna tell you something," the demon answered, prompting a sudden swell of frustration in Sam's chest.

"So  _tell_ ," he snapped. "I'm listening."

"I'd kinda like to do it to that Paleolithic face of yours."

Sam felt his eyebrows rise despite himself. This wasn't the first time he'd been called a Cro Magnon (his heavy brow and solid jaw were, admittedly, pretty distinctive), but he was a little impressed that the demon had managed to get the time period right. That didn't mean that he was going to do what he wanted him to, of course.

"Why? So you can spit in it again?" he asked, finally reaching the kitchen. Crackers, water bottles, apples. He stuffed his painkillers into his pocket and started looking for what he needed. There was silence from the demon cell for a few seconds, and he was just starting to feel triumphant when the Knight spoke out again.

"You left your first-aid kit in here," he called. Sam twitched one shoulder in an approximation of a shrug. He had plenty of first-aid material outside of the kit. Okay, well, maybe "plenty" was kind of an overstatement, but he'd be okay for a while. "And my door's not locked…and my one ankle's not strapped down. Remember? You wanted to straighten my knee out?"

Sam stilled, his food gathered into a small, neat pile on the counter in front of him, between his hands. As much as he hated to admit it to himself, the demon's attempts to lure him back into his cell were starting to work. He needed to at least lock his stupid door, even if it was only to give himself a false sense of security, and it would probably be a good idea to go and get the first-aid kit, too. There was a tube of muscle relaxant cream in there that he was sure would help his leg.

Looked like the benefits of going back into that cell outweighed the stupidity of it. Sighing heavily through his nose, Sam headed over to the gate. He stopped on the way to drop the rations on his desk, so that he could pick them up again when he was finished with this. After pushing open the gate, he limped into the cell and over the carvings that made up the Circle of Solomon. He stopped as far away from the demon as he could – namely, right next to the first-aid kit, which he stooped down to pick up with his right hand. The demon spoke to him as soon as he'd straightened up and was looking at him.

"I really hate you," he said roughly, after clearing his throat. Sam snorted again.

"Is that seriously what you wanted to tell me to my face?" he asked, a little incredulous. "I'm pretty sure I could've figured that out on my own. And I'm not exactly president of your fan club, either."

"I really hate you," the demon repeated, "'cause I have to tell you this." The way he said "have to" made it sound like he really didn't have a choice in the matter. Sam, unimpressed, watched him squirm in his chair. After about thirty seconds, he spat out, "I'm sorry."

The pain medication must have gone straight to Sam's head and made him hallucinate. He was probably passed out, drooling and twitching, on the bathroom floor. "Excuse me?"

"I said I'm fucking  _sorry_ , jerkoff." The demon glared murderously at Sam, looking like he'd taken a huge bite out of a lemon, rind and all. "I know you're not deaf. I'm sorry for kicking your gimpy leg. Is that so hard to believe? I was pissed. I wanted to hurt you, sure, but…" He trailed off, the glare softening into something else as he stared at the cane Sam was leaning on. "Not that bad. I think."

Sam just stared. All the research and reading (and there was a lot of it) that he had to do for his job had given him a large vocabulary in more languages than just English, but he couldn't think of a single thing to say right now.

"And I need to thank you for patching me up like you did," the demon added, albeit grudgingly. "I'm healing a lot faster 'cause of your Band-Aids." He tipped his chin up, regarding Sam apathetically. His voice was caustic as he tacked on, "The torture kinda cancels it out, though."

Sam just stood there for a few seconds, then blew out a deep, shocked breath and turned around, first-aid kit in hand. He heard the demon make a disbelieving sound behind him as he shoved the gate open and left the cell, and felt sure that he was shaking his head.

"What, not even a 'apology not accepted'?" he complained. "C'mon, man. Were you raised in a barn?"

"Uh, car, actually," Sam replied without thinking, setting the first-aid kit on his desk as he passed it and heading into the kitchen. He felt like a tortoise could have outpaced him at the moment, but he did eventually make it, and then he eventually made it back to the demon cell after picking up one of his light, flimsy kitchen chairs. He was very glad that he'd left the gate open, and that he'd never gotten around to investing in more robust chairs.

He dropped it in front of the demon, who stared at it, obviously not understanding. Then he realized that he had to go back out again to get the first-aid kit, and cursed himself the entire way. When he was finally able to settle into the chair, inches away from the demon, with the kit on his lap and his cane leaning against his thigh, he almost moaned with blatant relief. But he bit that sound back, and instead made quiet eye contact with the demon.

"It's probably the dumbest thing I've ever done," he told him, voice soft with the foreboding that was all but choking him right now, "but I accept your apology."

The demon blinked at him, then broke into a wide, crazy-looking grin, made about a million times more savage by the blood in his teeth.

"Yeah, I'll say," he agreed. "Did your dad throw you outta that car he raised you in, when you were a baby? Headfirst?"

"Well, if this is a trick that I'm stupid enough to fall for, then why aren't you kicking or spitting at me right now?" Sam challenged, popping the clasp on the white plastic box that held the kit and opening it up. "I'm more than close enough."

The demon was silent (and, thankfully, cooperative) while Sam changed the wrappings on his knee and the bandages over his stab wound. It didn't take long, and when he was finished, he didn't strap the demon's ankle back against the chair. Instead, he grabbed his boot, lifted his foot straight up, got a surprised yelp out of him, and then settled his calf down on the seat of the kitchen chair as he stood up. His foot was sticking out through the cutout in the back, so that his whole leg was supported.

"How does that feel?" Sam asked, leaning on his cane as he watched the demon stare down at his tightly-wrapped and now straight knee.

"…better," he admitted gruffly, though he didn't look at Sam as he said it. "Hurts like a bitch, of course, but that's nothing new."

 _Demons can't feel the pain of their vessels. It doesn't mean anything to them._  "Would painkillers work on you?" Sam asked, balancing on his good leg in order to reach for his pocket with his left hand. His right one was busy with holding the first-aid kit.

The demon shook his head. "I don't want any painkillers," he declared, so Sam put his hand back on his cane. "Think you've done everything you can for me right now. Well, short of taking these chains off of me." He rattled them, then smiled tightly. "But I guess I can't really blame you for keeping them on."

Sam smirked with one side of his mouth, then glanced around the cell. There were still dirty washcloths and bandages littering the cement around the demon's chair, and a stainless steel bowl filmed by soap scum (the water he hadn't spilled must have evaporated), but he'd clean all of that up later. When he was less tired and his leg felt better.

He heard a light flicking sound all of a sudden, and looked up to see that the demon's eyes had shifted to black, for the first time today.

"Still afraid of me?" he asked, voice shining with the hint of a challenge.

Sam looked at the demon's shiny black eyes, so similar to those of a bird, and swallowed. It was a reflexive gesture, though. Not a fearful one. Instead of answering his question, he quietly said, "I'm not gonna hurt you anymore. No more salt, no more holy water, no more exorcism rituals. No more torture."

He turned around and left the demon blinking at his back, locking the gate behind him after depositing the first-aid kit on his desk. He made a couple of trips to bring it and his food into his room, where he spread himself out on his bed with a soft sigh. He needed to give the leg that he'd been pretty much dragging around all morning a break. He'd put that cream on when he woke up. And take another couple of pain pills.

As he drifted off, he couldn't help feeling like he was going to regret the promise he'd made to the demon. About not torturing him anymore.

But it was a bit late to do something about it now. He was already asleep.


	11. Chapter Eleven

_Garth comes by with food and soap and stuff every couple of weeks, or sends Charlie in his place if he can't make it. Both of them kind of have a tendency to drop in unannounced before these scheduled deliveries, just to make sure that I'm doing okay. Other hunters come out to give me monsters or books or artifacts they've found, or to talk to me in person and ask my advice on stuff. People call me. They e-mail me. They text me. They write letters. But I guess that all of that's just not enough, for some reason._

_I guess I can admit it, even if it's just on paper: I'm lonely._

_This kind of isolation – a one-man cabin out in the middle of the woods with no other people for miles – would be heaven for a lot of hunters, but I guess I'm just not like them. Probably because I'm not a psychopath and I don't have reactive attachment disorder. I miss talking to people every day. I miss living with somebody. I mean, yeah, I know, me and Dad fought like cats and dogs while he was still alive, and even when we were on good terms, the guy was hardly my best friend. But he was somebody._

_I've got the monsters. That new wraith kid is finally starting to open up; it took him a while, but I guess he did manage to figure out that I'm not going to hurt him. As near as I can tell, the guys who brought him in treated him fine on the way, but it's still got to be traumatic, and I understand why he was so scared for so long. We talk every day now. Exchange a few words whenever I bring him his food, and I guess that, technically, he lives with me. They all do. It's just not the same, though. Especially because he's basically a kid._

_I don't know. It's completely useless to be feeling like this. All that matters is my work, since it's the only worthwhile thing that I can do anymore with my leg like it is, and_ this _can only distract me from it. But I want to be able to talk to someone for hours, and feel like they really know me. Not like Garth and Charlie. I want to eat breakfast with someone every morning. I want someone to tell me that what I do here is right in a way that means I'm almost guaranteed to believe it._

_And I know that that's way too much to ask. What I really want here is a boyfriend or a girlfriend. Or a husband or a wife. A life partner. But I'm officially off the market, since I haven't left this place in years. I'm alone. And I'm going to stay that way, since it isn't like someone is going to deliver a lover to me._

-  _Personal journal of Sam Winchester_

* * *

Sam's leg was wonderfully, mercifully quiet as he bent once to dig a handful of comic books out of the chest in his closet, took a few steps, then bent again to retrieve a blank journal from a neat stack at the foot of his bed. The muscles twitched with strain, and of course it hurt, but the pain was a distant, shadowy echo of what he'd felt the day after the demon had kicked him. Arms laden with paper, Sam shot a triumphant glance at his cane, where it was leaning against the wall. He didn't need it today. In fact, he didn't even need painkillers today, and he counted both as enormous victories on his part.

After leaving his room, Sam felt his lips press into a thin line, as a shock of bright red hair ducked back into Vaughn's cell and the door  _click_ ed rapidly closed. He reached it in a few steps and opened it back up just in time to see Vaughn flop hastily onto his cot.

"Oh, hi, Sam," he exclaimed, feigning complete innocence. "What're you doing here?"

 _"_ _Stop,"_  Sam replied very firmly, closing the door behind him, "messing around in the kitchen. There's nothing in there for you to eat, anyway."

"How do you know?" Vaughn challenged, arching a bright eyebrow.

"Maybe 'cause it's my damn kitchen." Sam walked over to his cot. "Having your door unlocked is a privilege, not a right. The only reason it started was so that you could come and get me if you needed me." And also so that he could make it to the bathroom if he ever felt sick again, rather than throwing up in the corner of his cell like he had last time. Sam had dealt with bodily fluids much worse than vomit over the years but, given a choice, he'd still rather not have to clean it up. "Not so you could rearrange my fridge."

"Your fridge is a mess," Vaughn protested.

"It sure is," Sam agreed. "Aaaaand whose fault is that?" He widened his eyes at Vaughn. "Not mine, I don't think. 'Cause I organize that thing like a file cabinet."

Vaughn made a face at him. Definitely not the worse one he could make, given what he looked like in the mirror. Sam just rolled his eyes in response.

"Here, he said, handing over the stack of comics with the vinyl-bound journal sitting proudly on top. "Maybe this'll keep you in your room for a while."

"But…" Vaughn took what he'd been offered with a mixture of confusion and eagerness. "It's not time yet."

"Well," Sam began with a shrug, "these past few days have been kinda rough of both of us. Especially you. Like I said before, you're not used to this kinda stuff – not like I am." He sank down onto the foot of Vaughn's cot. Just because his leg was feeling better didn't mean that it was  _strong_. "So I figured you could use a pick-me-up."

"Okay." Vaughn picked up the journal and showed it to Sam, looking skeptical. "So what's this for?"

Sam shrugged again. "You've been into comic books for as long as I've known you. I figured that maybe it was time for you to start writing and drawing one of your own. That journal doesn't have any lines in it, so it's really more like a sketchbook."

Vaughn squinted at him, then shook his head. "I can't draw, Sam."

"Yeah, well, neither can I," Sam replied, pushing himself back to his feet with a grunt of effort. "And I do it for a living." He headed for the door. "There are pens and pencils out on my desk. I'm sure you know where to find them – since, y'know, you've already been through pretty much all my stuff."

"Sorry," Vaughn called sheepishly, and Sam allowed himself a smile as he pushed the door closed. Maybe it did bother him a little bit, to have Vaughn running around the cabin, but only because he'd never allowed a monster so much freedom before. Months spent locked up in a single small room had to result in at least a little curiosity, so he was found to fumble through everything he could find. All the fragile, valuable thing were in Sam's bedroom, where they were probably safe, since he hadn't ventured in there yet. He probably never would. Wraiths respected others' territory, and a juvenile like Vaughn wouldn't even consider challenging Sam for the right to enter it.

"How come you give him stuff to read?"

The rough voice of the demon, casual and honestly curious, broke into Sam's thoughts. He stepped away from Vaughn's door and walked over to where he could see through the iron gate, into the specialized cell. The demon's eyes were green, just as they had been since the day before yesterday, when Sam had promised not to torture him anymore.

"Actually, forget that question, I don't care," the demon backtracked. "How come you let him wander around your cabin? You never let the djinn do that. And I think I would've enjoyed watching her sashay around the kitchen a lot more than him."

He leered. It wasn't too effective, considering the bandages that swathed his torso and the fact that one of his legs was still up on a chair to keep his damaged knee straight. So Sam didn't react.

"You better not've been talking to him," he replied, taking a few steps closer to the gate. The demon shook his head.

"Nah, of course not," he assured. "I only talk to you. Since, y'know, we're friends now." The sarcasm on that last part was heavy, but it was completely gone when, after a pause, he continued with, "He's really shaken up. By what – happened. What he saw."

"Yep," Sam replied, seeing no harm in agreeing with that statement.

"But why the hell would something like that freak him out?" The demon made a face. "Kid's a wraith, isn't he? Even a baby like that'd be eating brains. Punching holes in people's heads and sucking 'em out." He made a loud, wet slurping noise that bordered on obscene, and Sam had to resist the urge to stare at his crotch in shock and betrayal for reacting the way it had. Instead, he watched the demon think about it before speaking again. "Was it…because he knew her? Or because  _you_  did it?"

Sam was less surprised by the question than by the lack of cruelty in it. Well, okay, sure, there was some, but it wasn't anything like what he would've expected. Maybe the demon just wasn't capable of asking a question that wasn't at least a tiny bit malicious. Because he was a demon and all. That didn't mean that he was going to answer him, though.

"Why d'you wanna know?" he asked, taking another step forward to lean on the gate's bars. They were pleasantly cool.

"'Cause I am honestly curious," the demon replied. "D'you have  _any_  idea how boring it is to be me right now? I sit in this chair, and I stare at that wall." He nodded, presumably, to the wall directly opposite his cell. "I can't move. I can't use my super-special demon powers to mess with the stuff on your desk. Hell, I can't even sleep to break the monotony." He shook his head, looking genuinely frustrated for a second. "You coming in here to change my bandages is the highlight of my whole damn day." He glanced down at his knee. "Speaking of which. It's about time for that, isn't it?"

Sam caught himself smiling, and clamped down on it as he pushed off the gate and limped over to the bathroom to get his first-aid kit. It was apparently pretty tough for him to remember, but this thing wasn't his friend and couldn't be trusted. Normal demons were paragons of violent psychopathy who would beat him to death with one of his own severed limbs without hesitation if they ever got half a chance, and a Knight of Hell had to be about a million times worse, as one of their leaders.

"No cane today," that Knight noted as Sam unlocked the door and walked into the cell, kit dangling from one hand. "Your leg must be feeling better."

"Yeah, it is, actually," Sam agreed. The demon might not be his friend, but it wasn't as if making casual conversation with him would give him the tools he needed to break out and kill him. "It tends to bounce back pretty fast. Probably because it doesn't have much to bounce back to." He raised his eyebrows sarcastically as he reached the demon. "How's  _your_  leg feeling?"

"Healed," the demon replied, wiggling his leg where it lay on the kitchen chair.

"No way." Sam shook his head.

"Well, yeah, hey, don't take my word for it," the demon agreed. "Take my leg down, cop a squat here, and feel for yourself."

Sam was skeptical, pulling the chair out and gently lowering the heel of the demon's boot to the concrete floor. His knee was currently in much better shape than it had been, but parts of it had still been displaced and broken yesterday. Nothing but angels healed that fast, despite the neat trick that the demon had pulled with his fingers a while back. Sam lowered himself into the chair, leaned forward, and began to gently press at the knee with his fingertips, feeling it through the fresh wrap that he had put on it yesterday.

"…huh." He couldn't believe it. The tendon that had still been flopping around loosely twenty-four hours ago was reattached, and the few bone fragments he'd been able to find were either gone or back in their places. There wasn't even any swelling left, or bruising. He started to unwrap the bandages, trying not to let the demon see how surprised he was – or how impressed.

"Told you, didn't I?" the demon asked, grinning down at him.

"You sure did." Sam tossed the bandages aside, and of course he didn't bother replacing them. "How's your stab wound doing?" He peeled tape and a pad of gauze off of that as the demon's grin faded.

"Yeah…that one might take a little longer," he admitted.

"Well, it's not bleeding anymore. Or oozing pus." Sam reached for a tube of antiseptic cream anyway. "That's a good thing."

The demon licked his full, pink lips, watching as Sam gently rubbed the cream onto him. Abruptly, he said, "Tell me about the wraith kid."

Sam glanced up at him. "His name is Vaughn."

"Vaughn, then. Go ahead and tell me about Vaughn." The demon waited, then continued when Sam didn't answer. "If he's off-limits, then tell me about the djinn. Or the banshee. Just tell me about  _somebody_. Talk to me."

Sam blew out a deep, half-exasperated breath, as he tore open the paper wrapper of a gauze pad. He pressed it to the demon's stab wound and taped it firmly in place. It probably still needed to be covered, in his opinion.

"Vaughn's never hunted," he said, after a few seconds of silence had passed. "He's never killed anybody. Pretty much every other monster I've ever had here has taken blood and guts in stride, but he's not familiar with it."

"Overprotective parents?" the demon guessed. He looked pretty proud of himself, now that Sam was talking.

"Uh…no. Not really." Sam cleared his throat and shifted in his seat, throwing one leg over the other. His bad one protested. He ignored it. "There are several different kinds of people who know about all of…this." He gestured to the demon, who frowned. "There's the hunters. The buffer between humans and monsters, who interfere whenever something is eating or torturing or raping people. There's the people like me." He put a hand on his chest. "Researchers. There's people who just pretend it doesn't even exist. And then there's the collectors." He swallowed. "Which is where Vaughn came from."

The demon leaned forward as far as the tight straps of his chair would let him, intrigued. "A collector. He was seriously part of some freak's collection?"

Reluctantly, Sam nodded. Maybe he should have asked Vaughn's permission before spilling his life story to a demon. But, if he had his way, the two of them would never talk to each other, and it wasn't as if Vaughn's origins were a secret. The entire hunting community (those who read Sam's books and his website, at any rate) knew where he'd come from and what had happened to him.

"The guy had a thing for shapeshifters," he told the Knight, who nodded, completely focused on him. Which wasn't surprising, considering that this had to be the most interesting thing he'd heard in weeks. "He had a…big old family farm. Barns, root cellars, farmhouse with a huge basement. He kept a handful of every species he could find out there. He wanted…" He sighed a little. "To figure out how they did it. How they changed. Actually, he wanted to know everything about them – which is why he was breeding them. Against their will, during the wrong seasons, and in the wrong conditions."

"So there're a lot like Vaughn out there," the demon interrupted. "Baby shapeshifters, bred in captivity. Werewolves, skinwalkers…" He trailed off when Sam started to shake his head.

"No," he said. "Vaughn was the best result. Which is probably why he treated him better than all the others: he taught him to read, he fed him human brains, he didn't chain him up or put him in a little cage. He was found in one of the barns. Two horse stables had been converted into a pretty comfortable cell. He was healthy. Curious. Not a mark on him. The guy'd been taking good care of him." Sam felt his upper lip twitch in remembered disgust. "He had something planned for him. No idea what."

"So who put this guy outta business?" the demon asked.

"Well, hunters," Sam replied. "One of his werewolves got out and basically went batshit in the nearest town. A group I know brought it down, and then tracked it back to him. I still don't really know what they did to him, and I'm pretty sure that I don't want to, either." No one had any pity for collectors, but Sam made a face anyway. "Most of his wild-caught monsters were dead by then, from experiments and starvation and stress and stuff like that. The rest, and their offspring, they were…sick. Feral, mutilated. The hunters killed most of them and burned the farm." He leaned back in his chair, folding his arms across his chest and feeling his face settle into an expressionless mask as memories from eight months ago came flooding back. "Then they came up here and gave me Vaughn, 'cause he was pretty much domesticated, and about ten boxes' worth of notes."

"Jesus fuckin' Christ," the demon commented, sounding impressed. And there was perfect proof right there that he was a Knight of Hell, since Sam was pretty sure he'd never come across a demon who could say the name of God before. Or even profane it. "Ten whole boxes?"

"He was thorough," Sam replied, grimly. "He wrote down everything that he did to his shapeshifters. None of what he wanted to do, but everything he did. Which is…how I know what happened to Vaughn's mom."

The demon widened his eyes expectantly, and Sam immediately shook his head.

"Uh, no," he said. "I don't think so. That's not something that you need to know about. Mostly because Vaughn doesn't need to know about it. I'm pretty sure that he doesn't even remember her, but he still doesn't need to know."

"Well, does he know she's  _dead_?"

"He's not stupid." That was Sam's response, as he began to gather everything up and get ready to leave the cell. "There. Now you know where he came from. Are you entertained?"

"Well, it's a hell of a lot more interesting than my origin story," the demon admitted. "And, uh, yours, too, probably." He nodded, casually, to Sam's leg, but didn't ask what'd happened to hurt it, like he'd been expecting him to.

"Maybe just a little," Sam agreed, then got to his feet. "I'll check that again tomorrow, okay?" He pointed to the gauze pad that covered the messy stab wound that Gordon had inflicted before turning to the doorway and limping towards it. The demon's voice stopped him before he could leave the cell, though.

"Hey. Wait up a minute." Sam glanced over his shoulder, then shook his head.

"I'm not gonna tell you anything else," he told him. He pushed open the gate.

"Yeah, I got tha – Sam.  _Hey_." Sam paused. Mostly because he was pretty sure that this was the first time that the demon had called him by his real name. He turned around in order to look at him, and he rolled his eyes exaggeratedly. "Jeez. I'm just trying to talk to you, here – you've got a real problem with listening, you know?"

"So I've heard," Sam replied. "You don't wanna apologize again, do you?"

 _"_ _No,"_ the demon said with a snort. "I just wanted to tell you…" He sat up straight in his chair. "That you're doing a really great job with that kid. Now, I'm definitely no wraith expert, but he looks healthy enough. And what I am," he made eye contact with Sam, "is an empath. All demons are. So I can tell you for sure that he's happy, and that he cares about you." He coughed. "You're taking good care of him. Whole lot better than the asshat you just told me about." A smirk flickered along the edges of his full pink lips. "You're just really not anything like I thought you were, at first."

Sam was surprised. Maybe not quite as surprised as he had been when the demon had said he was sorry for kicking him in his crippled leg, but still pretty surprised. He didn't receive a whole lot of praise (and, definitely, no one had ever congratulated him on his gentle treatment of the monsters he kept), and this was probably the last place he'd ever expect it to come from.

"Thanks," he said after a little while, making an effort to take the compliments well. "That really means a lot." Carrying the first-aid kit, he turned back to the open gate, adding offhand, "Even coming from a demon."

"My name's Dean."

Sam stopped again. At this rate, there was no way that he was ever going to make it out of this cell. He set the first aid kit down on the wooden floorboards beyond the gate, then turned around once more and walked back to the demon in his chair. To  _Dean_.

"What'd you say?" he asked, just wanting to make sure that he'd heard correctly.

"I'm  _Dean_ ," Dean replied, placing an emphasis on his name. "You gave me your name and then you asked me for mine, back when I couldn't talk. And you said that you were gonna give me one if I didn't tell you, but I'm not sure you ever did. No idea what you've been calling me in that gigantic head of yours, but no way is it my real name, so. I'm Dean." He widened his eyes. "You're welcome."

"'Dean' isn't a very traditional name for a Knight of Hell," Sam pointed out. "Abbadon, Beelzebub, Baal – "

"Yeah, well, I'm the baby of the family, so I'm special," Dean replied, cutting him off. "They actually did give me a new name, but, trust me, you don't wanna hear it. Makes me sound all flowery and Biblical and shit. I like 'Dean' a whole lot better – it was the name that I was born with, and it's the name I'm keeping."

Sam licked his lips as, instantly, he realized what that meant. "It's the name you had as a human, you mean."

"Don't hurt yourself, Einstein," Dean replied. "Yeah. Pretty sure I'm not supposed to remember it, but…" He batted dark golden eyelashes at Sam. "You're not gonna tell anybody, are you?"

Sam felt a light, breathy, incredulous sound that was almost a laugh bubble out of him. He stepped closer to Dean, and began to work at the buckle of the leather strap that crossed his chest. He shifted under his hands.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa." His chains rattled. "What're you doing there?"

"What d'you  _think_  I'm doing?" Sam replied, letting that strap fall loose as he moved down to the next one. He glanced up at Dean with a raised eyebrow. "Y'know, for a smartass, you're actually not all that smart, are you?"

Dean scowled fiercely down at him. "Watch it." A second strap fell open. "I just don't understand why the hell you're letting me go."

"I'm not letting you go." Now the only straps holding Dean to the solid wood of the chair were on his lower legs. Or, well, leg, since Sam had just left his right one free even though it was healed now. "I'm just gonna get you outta this stupid chair. It's practically a torture device." Sam had to crouch in order to unbuckle the last strap, around Dean's left ankle. "And…there you go."

He'd been worried that the demon would stand when fully free. Either try to make it out of the cell or just kick Sam to death where he sat helpless on the floor. But Dean didn't make a move, so Sam grabbed onto the arm of the chair and hauled himself up, then took hold of his bicep and helped him to his feet.

The legs of his vessel wouldn't support him at first, and Sam found himself holding up almost all of what had to be around a hundred and ninety pounds of muscle. He had to stagger to keep from collapsing. He guessed it was understandable, since Dean had been sitting for over two weeks, but he couldn't help thinking that someone with a demon calling the shots inside of them shouldn't be prone to human weakness like this.

Dean eventually regained his strength and stood on his own. When Sam hesitantly let go of him, he nodded reassuringly at him. He couldn't wave him away, since his wrists were still in the handcuffs and his arms were still bound to his upper body by the chain.

"I'm okay, I'm okay," he promised. "I'm fine." He suddenly stretched as best he could with a loud groan, green eyes fluttering shut, and Sam winced heavily as a cacophony of pops and cracks erupted along his spine. "Oh, my  _god_ , that feels good."

"Don't pop your stitches," Sam warned as he dragged the heavy binding chair off to one side. Dean, still standing in the middle of the Circle of Solomon, turned to watch him.

"Wouldn't matter all that much if I did," he pointed out with half a smile. Sam limped back and grabbed the kitchen chair, glad that he didn't have that much else to do here. His leg was really starting to hurt, silently bitching him out for all the unwanted physical activity. "I still don't get why you're doing this, by the way."

"Because," Sam answered, setting the kitchen chair where Gordon's binding chair used to be, "you're just really not anything like I thought you were, at first."

Dean regarded him for a few seconds, looking almost amused, then cocked his head to the side. His eyes turned black and empty, and he smiled. "You a hundred percent sure about that, Sammy?"

Sam just stuffed his hands into the pockets of his jeans and left the cell. He locked the gate before taking the first-aid kit back to the bathroom. "See you tomorrow, Dean." He heard boots scuff over concrete as he walked around in his cell for the first time. "And  _don't_  bother Vaughn."

"No promises," Dean replied.


	12. Chapter Twelve

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry.

_List of Precautions Taken_

_1 rope, soaked in a salt and holy water mixture, laid out in a 600 m di. circle with cabin in the middle and buried 6 in. underground_

_At least 300 Enochian sigils, worked into the bark of trees within the rope_

_2 m di. devil's trap, worked in iron and buried 6 in. underground in front of back door_

_All doorways and window frames painted with salt and holy water mixture_

_1 m di. devil's trap, in black light paint, in front of bedroom door_

_72 Enochian sigils, in black light paint, on bedroom door_

_38 Enochian sigils, in chalk, drawn in a circle around bed_

_3 1 m di. devil's straps, in black light paint, in front of each ordinary cell_

_1 line of graveyard (goofer) dust laid underneath jamb of bedroom door_

_1 line of goofer dust laid underneath sash of bedroom window_

_1 glass ampoule of holy water kept in nightstand_

_1 box of iron nails kept in nightstand_

_1 handgun, loaded with six silver bullets, kept under bed_

_1 sawed-off shotgun, loaded with salt rounds, kept under bed_

_½ cup of dead man's blood kept in refrigerator_

_1 syringe kept in refrigerator (taped to dead man's blood)_

_1 pitcher of holy oil kept under desk_

_1 lighter kept on desk_

_1 machete kept in desk drawer_

_1 handgun, loaded with 6 hollowpoints, kept in desk drawer_

_1 premade Molotov cocktail kept in desk drawer_

_42 Enochian sigils, in black light paint in a circle around desk_

_Cabin-wide black lighting system_

Last maintenance performed 05/02/2004

-  _Personal journal of Sam Winchester_

* * *

The porch started creaking – loudly – about five minutes after Sam managed to fall asleep.

That was what it felt like, at least. Weighed down by the blankets that covered his bed and heavy with the warmth of the space heater, he groaned, rolled over, and buried his face in his pillow. He was unpleasantly reminded of Dean's chain-rattling phase, his efforts to keep him awake all night, even though he'd only been out of sleep for a few seconds here. And only because it'd startled him. It was an old wooden building, and he tended to be used to it making all sorts of noise.

A particularly loud creak rolled through the cabin, even making it past the foam that padded his door. Sam yawned into the soft down of his pillow, eyes closed. Probably the wind. No, it sounded like somebody was walking around out there, which meant a deer had stepped up onto the porch and was licking the salt off of his windows. There'd been a time, a few years ago, when he would've scrambled out of bed and rushed to the front windows to see a deer. But he'd seen a lot of deer. They all looked the same. And he wanted to go back to sleep.

He was pretty close to achieving that after a couple of minutes, creaking and all. He was starfished out over his mattress with his left hand shoved up under his pillow, which happened to be  _the_ most comfortable position for him at the moment. A warm tingling feeling was spreading through him. His breathing was even, and his heart rate was slow.

Then someone kicked the door in.

The sound of splintering wood and screeching metal was like an explosion in Sam's ears. He bucked, struggling out from underneath the blankets and covers of his bed, and tumbled to the floor. He somehow managed to land on his feet, and clenched his teeth to ignore the spike of pain that the impact sent up his leg. He dropped to his knees then and shoved a hand under his bed, scrabbling uselessly past stacks and stacks of journals, until his fingers finally closed around the smooth wooden stock of a shotgun. His thumb ran over the pentagram that he'd etched into it as he pulled it out and heaved himself back up into a standing position, using the mattress for support.

Sam stumbled to his closed door, gun hanging from his left hand, and slapped his right one down onto a plastic panel that held two light switches. One controlled the light in his room, and he'd left it its original white. The other he'd painted black. That was the one he hit.

Someone in the main room of the cabin swore, so loudly that Sam could hear it over the thundering of his own blood. He yanked his door open, shotgun coming up as he fell back on training that had started when he was five years old – and felt a lot like swearing himself.

The runes on his door were still in perfect shape. But of course they were; he hardly ever touched the outside of his door. They were glowing a brilliant, obvious green in the purple light. The devil's traps that he'd put down on the floor, on the other hand, were a very different story. Paths had been worn right though the center of them by his own feet, over three years of walking through them without repainting or even checking up on them. They were useless.

As stupid as he'd been, though, there was no time to beat up on himself now. There were four people in the cabin, scattered around the large main room. Three men and one woman, with the hard-edged look of Special Ops or CIA field agents about them, dressed in black with conventional (guns) and supernatural (silver blades) weapons hanging from webbed belts around their waists. Sam knew a tactical team when he saw one. And when the closest one's head whipped towards him unnaturally fast, black eyes glittering, he knew what they'd come for, too.

Demon commandos. Now he'd officially seen fucking everything.

His thoughts flew to the knife in the closet. Damn it, he should really start keeping that thing closer to his bed. Was it worth the time that it would take to grab it? Or should he just charge out there and try to defend the contents of his two occupied cells with nothing more than a salt-filled shotgun?

The decision was pretty much made for him. The closest demon lunged at him with an aggressive snarl, and Sam instinctively slammed the door shut. There was a loud  _thud_  and then a howl of pain, and the wood shook but held. No black smoke crept in around the edges, either. The Enochian sigils on the door had been originally meant to keep aggressive or rogue angels out, but it didn't work half-bad on demons.

Muscle memory led Sam to the closet in the darkness of his room, and to the rack that the knife rested in, behind his clothes. He crossed the floor again, opened the door with his shotgun hand. The demon practically fell at him, a K-bar knife in what must have been his dominant hand, and Sam's knife came up, too. A line of fire drew itself across his forearm as he sank his dagger into the soft part of the demon's stomach, right underneath his sternum. The K-bar clattered to the floor. The demon froze. Red-white light sparked and flashed through his body as his corrupted soul burned away, and then the vessel went limp, sliding off of Sam's knife and thumping to the floor.

The other three demons had apparently been standing right behind him, and now they were staring down at him. Sam knew that he had less than a second. So he thumbed back a hammer and emptied one barrel of his shotgun into all three of them. They caught it perfectly, right across their torsos, and they screamed.

They must have had a plan before they came in. Either that, or they were psychic, because the two men suddenly drew back without a word, hugging their salt-filled chests, while the woman stepped up and bared her teeth. They glowed a bright purple in the black light, just like the shine on her solidly ebony eyes. She suddenly took a swing at him, and he barely managed to dodge. He caught sight, meanwhile, of the two men hurrying along the wall that held all of his cells.

"Knight Dantalion," one called, voice steady and perfectly businesslike.

"Yeah. Over here," Dean replied. Chains rattled as he stood up and probably walked to the front of his cell.

_Dantalion?_

"Just don't touch the gate. It's made of iron," Dean continued. The female demon tried to hit Sam again, and this time, he blocked her punch by swinging the barrels of his shotgun at her fist. He heard bones crack, and she cried out as steam rose from her skin. The barrel was steel, and demons liked that only a little more than they liked iron. He saw the two male demons where they were now standing in front of Dean's cell.

"It's locked," one of them said. The female demon went for a gun in her belt, a compact little handgun, but Sam stopped her by bashing her hand again.

"Yeah. No shit, Sherlock." Her foot, in a combat boot, snapped up, and Sam swung backwards. He would have fallen if he hadn't dropped the knife to grab his doorframe. And the steel toe still grazed his chin.

"Where's the key?" one of the Black Ops demons demanded. A fist slammed into Sam's stomach before he could pull himself back upright, and he doubled over, sinking to his knees. He couldn't believe that he hadn't felt anything rupture inside of him.

"I don't know," Dean answered. Sam's eyebrows drew together. What the hell was he talking about? There was no way he couldn't know that the keys were on Sam himself, since he'd seen him unlock the door to his cell about a hundred times. But he stopped worrying about that when the female demon delivered a powerful double-handed punch to the back of his head. He felt himself slump to the floor like a puppet whose strings had been cut.

"You're weak," he heard the demon hiss. "Your wards were pathetic."

It was starting to turn into a theme. Every monster that hurt him calling him weak.

"Tasha," called the demon who'd been asking Dean about the key. Struggling, Sam pulled back the other hammer on his shotgun. "Kill the hunter and search his body. His room, too. We can't break iron bars and Dantalion is bound."

"Thanks for noticing," Dean said, rattling his chains. Sam heard the female demon draw her handgun with a sigh. He had fallen on his shotgun. Both barrels were pointing at her ankles in their boots. He pulled the second trigger as she aimed.

The leather of her boots – and a lot of the flesh underneath them – was torn apart in a spray of salt and blood. Her feet flew out from under her, and Sam wasn't sure if his ears were ringing because of the roaring blast of the shotgun or because of her screams. She hit the ground. She hit the body of the one demon Sam had already taken out, actually. He let go of the shotgun (useless now, except for as a club), pushed himself up with a hand that was now free, and drove his knife down between her shoulder blades. The muscles were thick, hard to get past, and he only barely avoided her ribs. But he killed her.

Two sets of boots hit the floor right next to Sam as he pulled his knife out of Tasha's body. He cried out as a hand buried itself in his hair and cruelly yanked his head back to expose his vulnerable throat.

"Hunter trash." A knife found the fluttering stream of his jugular. "Did you really think that you could keep a Knight of Hell in a cage? That you could beat us?"

"Whoa, whoa, hey, don't kill – " Dean began, but Sam heard him only the very back of his mind as he glared blurrily up at the demon holding him and bellowed, "Exorcismus te – "

Both demons shrieked and teleported backwards, letting go of him. Knife still in his hand, Sam heaved himself back into his room with a heroic effort, head swimming, stomach aching, arm stinging.

"Why could you possibly not want us to – " the demon who had tried to kill Sam demanded testily.

"Where the  _hell_  is that fucking – " the other one started.

Sam dragged his door closed, cutting them both off, and then collapsed against it. He somehow managed to turn so that his back was to it, then rubbed at his face. His hand came away damp with sweat and, probably, tears, too.

He closed his eyes and tipped his head back against the foam that made his room soundproof (though only to noises of a certain frequency, apparently), panting heavily as he tried to catch his breath and force the pain to fade from his body. The back of his head had still been pretty sore from where Nadia smacked it into the floor; skull bruises took a ridiculously long time to heal. Being punched there had kickstarted a nausea-inducing headache. Though some of that nausea might be from the fact that he'd been hit in the stomach, too.

At least they hadn't done anything to his stupid leg. That actually felt good, for once.

Sam gave himself about two minutes to recover, then reached up, wrapped a free hand around the doorknob above him, and used it to life himself. He needed to either kill these demons or run them off before they figured out how to spring Dean without a key – Dantalion the Knight couldn't be set loose.

_He was right, though. Jeez. He_ does _have a stupid name._

Sam limped over to the closet, grabbing another sawed-off and snapping salt rounds into it. A handful of extras went into the pocket of his sweatpants. He had to get out there, he had to get rid of the demons…he had to protect Vaughn. A sudden chill raced up his spine. He'd completely forgotten about the wraith. And the door to his cell wasn't locked. He needed to get him out of there and into the bedroom, safe, while he got everything cleaned up and set up hasty wards just in case the demons who were out there right now had backup. He wouldn't put it past them, since they were rescuing a Knight of Hell. And they looked like something out of a goddamn videogame.

He threw his door open, and only saw one demon. That one was dumping out all his desk drawers and rummaging through the contents, but he looked up when Sam stepped out of his room, and then he was directly in front of him with a K-bar of his own in his hand. Sam was ready, though. The shotgun was already raised to eye level, and his finger was already on the trigger. A barrel of saltshot caught him full in the face. And, at that range, there wasn't a whole lot of difference between salt and metal. The demon crumpled, most of the front half of his head splattered all over the floor, the other two dead demons, and Sam himself. The blast brought the one remaining demon running. That was the first time that Sam noticed the door to Vaughn's cell was open, because the demon had come out of it. The blood on his hands and arms shone black in this light.

"Castigli!" he called. A fog of shock had wrapped Sam's senses, but now he looked down, where the faceless demon had started to move. He pushed himself up onto his hands and knees, and tendrils of black smoke began to tease themselves free of the ruined brain and bone of his vessel's head.

"I don't think so," Sam said, and dropped like a rock, putting all of his weight behind his knife. It sank to the hilt in the demon's neck, as easily as if he'd been stabbing butter – except for the wet, meaty  _crunch_ ing sound of it. Those fingers of smoke fell to the floor like liquid and disappeared as the rest of the demon died inside of his faceless vessel,

Sam straightened, breathing hard. His shirt was matted to his chest with gore, and his hair to his scalp. His face and arms were covered with pieces of person. He could taste blood in his mouth, was sure it'd gotten into the cut on his arm, so he really hoped that the guy whose head he'd just blown apart had been clean.

None of what was on him was warm. The vessel had already been dead when he shot him.

He turned to look at the last demon, whose own bloody hand automatically flew to the gun on his hip. Sam gestured to Vaughn's cell, dark, with his shotgun, and asked, "What'd you do to the kid in there?"

The demon blinked black eyes, then grinned, wickedly. There was nothing but excited malice on his face. "Why don't you come over here and take a look?"

"Hey," Dean warned, from inside his cell. "Hey, look. Whatever your name is." Sam began to move, walking across the floor. "Get outta here, and come back later." His footprints were sticky-sounding, with the blood that covered his soles. "This guy is one crazy son of a bitch. Trust me on this. Didn't you see what he did to your three buddies over there?"

The last demon didn't turn to look at Dean, but his lip twitched up into a sneer as he spoke to him. "Don't tell me that the very last Knight of Hell is afraid of a human hunter with only one good leg."

"I'm telling you – " Dean started, but he didn't get to finish, because the demon that Sam was facing down drew his gun with inhuman speed and shot at him. He lunged to the side (it probably would have missed him anyway, he realized), and the bullet buried itself in the narrow section of wall between the bedroom and bathroom doors.

His leg screamed in agony where he'd landed heavily on it, but there was no time to give it a breather, because the demon had adjusted his aim and his finger was tightening on the trigger again. Sam didn't think. Just acted to keep a small piece of lead from burying itself in his guts. He hurled the knife in his hand, sending it spinning end over end towards the demon. His aim was really terrible (he'd practiced archery and chain-fighting, but never knife-throwing), since the thing clattered to the floor about a yard shy of its target, but it had the intended effect. The demon flinched, and he didn't shoot.

Salt sprayed across him. Most of it got him, specifically in the stomach and thighs, because Sam really wasn't that far away. He started screaming and swearing blue murder, body jittering with pain, and he aimed at Sam again with his stupid European-made handgun, but Sam was close enough now to tear it out of his grip and toss it out of his reach. Then he clubbed him across the face with the barrels of his empty shotgun, feeling his nose and cheekbone break under the powerful blow. The demon went down, and Sam went with him, because of the arms that he threw around his legs. They wrestled on the ground in a smear of blood, salt, and gunpowder. A knee suddenly struck Sam's ribs with demonic strength behind it, and he yelled in pain before choking, suddenly, unable to breathe. It had knocked the wind out of him. And probably cracked his ribs, too, from the way that it felt.

The demon must have realized he'd managed to hurt him, because he began to batter mercilessly at that spot. Blackness thudded around the edges of Sam's vision as he dug his fingernails into the crack between two floorboards and dragged himself forward like that. It was hell on his ribs, and the rest of his body, too, but in seconds, he'd snatched up the knife. He flipped himself over onto his back, grabbed the demon by the throat, and, screaming, began to stab.

The first one, in the stomach, did the job. But Sam kept going after that, unable to stop himself. Chest, belly, shoulders, face – cold blood fountained down onto him every time he ripped the knife out of the demon's increasingly-damaged flesh, and he  _screamed_ , a war cry of grief and fear and rage. Both the movement and the sound he was making made his ribs sear with white-hot pain, but he didn't stop until his arm had run out of strength.

He lay on his back as he pried open cramping, sticky fingers and let the knife fall to the floor again. The demon was dead weight on top of him. He was exhausted, but he could only take shallow breaths to replenish himself because of the agony of his ribs. He closed his eyes. The black lights made him dizzy.

"Sam?" Dean's voice, hushed, came after about fifteen minutes. "You…" He hesitated, as if thinking about what to ask, then finally settled on, "…alive?"

Sam didn't answer. With a breathy groan, he shoved the demon's dead vessel off of himself, then once again rolled over onto his stomach. Slowly, painfully. Pathetic whimpers trickled out of him as he dragged himself to the open door of Vaughn's cell, then latched onto the frame and began to pull himself up with it. It hurt. He didn't have the strength for it. He did it anyway.

"Vaughn," Sam rasped, once he was standing. His throat was raw and dry. "Vaughn."

He didn't get in answer, but then again, he hadn't expected one. There had been so much blood on the demon's arms. And a knife made of silver dangling from his belt, when he first arrived.

Sam knew what he'd find, as he stumbled across the cell and collapsed onto his knees next to the cot. But he touched the sodden covers anyway, fumbled through them until he found a cold, limp hand, held onto it tightly. He checked the pulse. A reflexive action. There wasn't one, of course.

He had left the door unlocked. He had never repainted the devil's trap in front of his cell.

"I'm sorry," Sam whispered. "I'm so sorry."

"Sam," Dean called again, this time with a note of command in his voice. Once again, Sam didn't answer him.

"Vaughn," Sam said numbly, and his fingers brushed against something hard, protruding from the wraith's wrist. His spike. Had he tried to fight back? Had he managed to stab the demon before he died? Sam hadn't seen any holes on him, but he hadn't exactly conducted a thorough physical examination while furiously stabbing him to death.

Vaughn's hand slipped away from his, and then the concrete was cold and solid beneath him. His eyes had fallen closed at some point. Dean was still calling his name, pretending to be concerned now, but he didn't have to worry about it, because it was fading away into silence. His last thought before he fully lost consciousness was that his whole world was wet and sticky now, and smelled like metal.


	13. Chapter Thirteen

_Let me just lay this out in front of you right now: curses are not something to be taken lightly. They aren't something you can blow off. If you underestimate them, something_ bad  _is going to happen to you, and more likely than not, it's going to be painful, it's going to be humiliating, and you're going to deserve it._

_Curses are nasty. Nine times out of ten, you're not going to be able to break them, because they were laid by people who are dead and intended to hurt people who are also dead. This is because the art of making powerful, long-lasting curses has been all but lost by everyone but a few creatures (thank god). Any witches you run across are going to throw tiny curses around. Hexes, aimed at specific people, that fizzle out as soon as they've done their job. We aren't going to talk about those. We're going to talk about the big guns: the ones that_ last.

_We've already established you can't break a curse. All you can do is keep people out of its way, if it's bound to a place; put it somewhere safe, if it's bound to an object; and if it's bound to a person or a family or some other group of people…well, we'll go over that later._

_The point is that, if you come across a curse, don't mess with it. Don't take any chances or perform any experiments, because that's kind of my job. If you even suspect that an object is cursed, don't even think about touching that thing with your bare hands. Don't spend too much time around it, either, because some cursed stuff can call to you. Get inside your head. The only way to shut it up and make it safe is to drop it in a hex box, and those are expensive to buy and tough to make. There are instructions on how to make a temporary one in the back of this book, though, so that you can neutralize your portrait that makes people's eyes bleed or whatever it is you have until you can find a more permanent solution to the problem._

_Seriously, though. No playing with it, no touching. Pick it up with tongs. You'll regret it if you don't._

\- Curses: People, Places, and Things, _Sam Winchester_

* * *

Demons: burned in a tangle in the back yard, weapons and all. Ashes buried at the edges of the property.

Wards: replaced and heavily bulked up, all round the entire cabin and the land that surrounded it.

The main room of the cabin: scrubbed with bleach until every speck of blood and bone and tissue was gone. Bullet pried out of the wall. Salt residue and gunpowder swept up.

Sam's ribs: felt out (not broken) and quieted with two aspirin.

Sam's pajamas: burned, ashes thrown into the trash pile.

Sam's weapons: cleaned with bleach, reloaded, put away.

Sam's arm: cleaned and bandaged. The cut wasn't deep enough to need stitches.

Sam's head: iced and calmed by the same two aspirin that he'd taken for his ribs.

Sam's stomach: probed for internal bleeding. None present.

Vaughn's cell: bedding and cot burned. Comic books burned. Loose pages burned. Journal burned. Walls and floor scrubbed with bleach.

Vaughn: burned. Ashes buried underneath the closest tree to the cabin.

Sam took stock of it all, all the work he'd done, as he sat in the shower and stared blankly out the frosted glass of the door. The spray was turned on as hot as he could stand it and as strong as he could make it, aimed directly at him. It pounded on his head. On his shoulders and chest. Running down the drain clean and clear because the last of the blood had been washed off of him half hour ago.

His arm had scabbed under the bandage that he'd slapped on it before getting to work on everything. He'd pulled that bandage off before getting in the shower, assuming that the scab would be enough. Which it was. But it was getting soft now, liable to fall off and make the cut start bleeding again any second. And his ribs were starting up again, too. And his head. He needed to take more aspirin.

The water was starting to cool down. Okay. Time to get out. Time to stop numbly, carelessly running through the list over and over again inside his head.

Sam struggled to his feet, turning off the water, then pushed open the door of the stall and reached for his towel. Light streamed in through the bathroom window. It was early afternoon. He was actually surprised that it hadn't taken him longer to take care of everything. He patted himself dry, replaced his bandages and popped another couple of aspirin, and knotted the towel around his waist before pressing the bathroom door open.

Bedroom. Clothes. Dean was oddly silent, even though he had to know that Sam would be able to hear him if he called out. Maybe he was feeling guilty – yeah, right. Demons didn't feel guilt or remorse. They didn't regret their actions, or things they had caused.

Hair still damp, Sam left his bedroom in jeans and a T-shirt, and scuffed his way across the floor that had been awash in blood last night. Early this morning. Whatever; he didn't care enough to make the distinction. Dean was standing up at the gate to his cell, as close as the Circle of Solomon would let him, and he watched Sam with green eyes as he approached. He really looked ridiculous, shirtless and with one leg of his jeans missing. That gauze pad still taped to his stomach. But he was obviously powerful.

"Uh…hey," Dean said, hesitantly. He nodded to Sam, and said, "Y'know, you're looking pretty good. All things considered. Hell of a lot better than the other guys, right?" He grinned.

"Dantalion?" Sam replied. Dean's grin faded into an ugly scowl.

"That's  _not_  how you say it," he complained. "They kept pronouncing it wrong. Sure, it's stupid, but it's not  _that_  stupid."

"Seems like a team of demons who came to break you out should really know how to pronounce your name," Sam replied. He stepped away from the iron gate, turning and then walking towards the kitchen. The conversation that he was having with Dean continued, despite the fact that he wasn't facing him anymore.

"Yeah, I know," Dean agreed. "Pretty much exactly how I feel. It's Dan-TAL-yun." He paused, and his chains clinked quietly as, presumably, he looked around. "So…I guess you got everything cleaned up."

"Yeah," Sam agreed neutrally, opening up one of the cabinets as he reached the kitchen.

"I could've helped with that, y'know," Dean pointed out. Sam snorted as he pulled down a bundle of black candles, bound together by twine.

"You  _seriously_  think I'd let you out," he stated flatly, bringing down another bundle. Then another, and another. There was half a dozen in each, and he stacked them like firewood on the counter.

"Well, nah," Dean admitted. "Guess I am just a little more dangerous than the wraith kid, huh?" A sudden stiffness flooded Sam's muscles. He struggled past it, not allowing himself to lock up. "But it's the last I could've done, since this was partially my fault."

Sam scooped the pile of candles, now pretty big, up off of the counter. He turned to look at Dean, and just barely managed to keep anger and shock and grief out of his voice as he repeated, "'Partially'?"

"Yeah. Partially," Dean agreed, and Sam could hear a challenge in there somewhere. "'Cause they did come for me, but it ain't like I called 'em here."

Sam snorted. "Right." It came out a lot more bitter than he'd meant it to. He was trying to wall everything back, focus on the task at hand with a clear and unbiased mind, but it just kept on slipping through. It was like trying to hold water in with barbed wire.

"You don't believe me?" Dean asked, sounding a little disbelieving himself. "You think they came here 'cause I got a message out to them." He shook his head. "How the hell would I've done that?"

"I don't have any idea," Sam responded harshly as he made his way over to his desk. "But I'm gonna make sure that you don't do it again. Ever."

"It wasn't me!" Dean exclaimed, rattling his chains in frustration.

"Then how else did they find this place?" Sam shot back. He balanced the pile of candles in one arm as he grabbed one of the two lighters on his desk with his other hand. He stuffed it into the pocket of his jeans.

"I don't know," Dean replied. "Maybe somebody tailed me when that Gordon asshole brought me up here. Maybe they tortured somebody to find out where a hunter'd take a Knight. Maybe your wards just suck." He glared at Sam as he dug the key ring out of his pocket. He had to fumble past the one to Vaughn's cell in order to get to the one that would let him open this gate. "In fact, yeah, it was probably that last one. How the hell else would four demons get in without you wanting them to? I'm just gonna assume that it wasn't really part of your plan for them to show up."

"Back away from the gate," Sam said tightly. That was the only response, of any kind, that he was going to give Dean. He was trying to bait him and it wouldn't work. "Sit down in your chair, and stay there.

Dean arched an eyebrow, and for the first time in a while, his eyes turned black. "Or what?" he challenged.

" _Or_ I'll drag you outta your vessel with a specially-tailored exorcism and keep you in a damn  _milk jug_ full of salt," Sam replied, speaking through teeth that had gritted themselves at some point. "This is the best thing you can hope for here, Dean."

The demon's expression might as well have been carved from granite as he took one step back, then a second, then a third, until he reached his chair. Sam was surprised as he sank down into it. He'd expected to have to make more threats than that – Hellspawn were rarely this cooperative, and even though he'd never dealt with a Knight before, he found it hard to believe that Dean's kind liked being ordered around by an ex-hunter any more than other demons did.

"You seem pretty desperate to have me believe you," Sam said, as he put the key in the lock. It slid home with a cold  _click_. "About not summoning those other demons here." He turned it. "Don't move a muscle if that's really true."

"It is," Dean replied as Sam pushed the gate open. "I'm not moving a damn  _inch_  over here, Sammy."

Sam rolled his eyes. Yeah, he believed that.

He hesitated before stepping into the cell. Into the Circle of Solomon that held Dean. This was stupid, and he knew it – what he was feeling right now as a result of what had happened last night wasn't clouding his judgment. Dean wasn't strapped into a heavy, rune-covered chair anymore, which meant he could move around the Circle at will; which meant that it wasn't too terribly unrealistic for him to be able to kill Sam if he went inside.

But he couldn't teleport within the circle and he still couldn't move his arms or hands away from his chest, so he'd have to run at Sam and attack him with his feet or legs. All Sam would have to do to survive was get out of the cell before Dean knocked him out or broke one of his legs or something. He felt confident that he could do that. And maybe some part of him just wanted to die, the pain of it be damned, because he went ahead and stepped into Dean's cell.

"What're you planning on doing to me, Sam?" Dean's voice was quiet. Sam briefly wondered if he'd received interrogation training, either as a human or as what he was now. Repeating the subject's name was a common technique, a way to form a quick and unconscious bond.

"Spell," Sam replied shortly. He stayed where he was while he gave his answer, just in case Dean reached badly and he had to leave the cell for his own protection. "It'll bind you for twenty-four hours. No moving, no talking…no sending any signals at all." He shifted the candles in his arms. "Would've done it sooner, but I needed to run a few experiments on you that're all done now."

Dean blinked at him, so slowly that it was almost reptilian, then glanced away, shaking his head. "If it makes you feel better, I guess." He moved, and Sam tensed until he realized that he was just crossing his legs. Irritation spiked in him.

"Yeah," he snapped. "Yeah, it makes me feel better – just what the hell is your problem, anyway?"

"Uh…" Dean leaned back in his chair and raised both of his eyebrows, skeptical. " _My_  problem?"

"There were murder threats," Sam said, frustrated and annoyed. "There were insults. There was you kicking me in my bad leg."

_"_ _Which,"_  Dean interjected, "I apologized for. A while ago, actually."

"Yeah – whatever." Sam shook his head, dismissing it. "So you started acting…better. And, okay, I guess I could see that, you were working an angle." He looked at the chair that Dean was sitting in now. "And I bought it. But I don't get why you're trying to be my friend  _today_ , after I fucked up your escape attempt last night."

More blinking. Then Dean shifted his weight and tipped his head back, looking like he was thinking as he pushed at the inside of his cheek with his tongue. Finally, he spoke.

"'Cause that's not the only thing that happened last night," he replied. "Four demons showed up to bust me out, yeah, and you killed 'em, but one of 'em also got to your wraith before you could stop him." He shook his head. "You obviously had a whole lot invested in that kid. And I guess that that makes me feel just bad enough, on some level, to not want to be my usual bag-of-dicks demon self to you today." He shook his head, looking a little fed up. "So pardon the little smidge of humanity that Alastair left me with."

Sam didn't respond to that. He didn't believe it, either, but Dean could probably figure that out well enough on his own. He stepped away from the doorway and knelt, not without some difficulty, in order to dump the candles onto the floor. The wax of them was soft, and had smeared all over his shirt, ruining it. He didn't care.

He pulled a folding knife out of his pocket and sawed through the twine around one of the bundles. The candles tumbled free. He started setting them up, exactly two feet apart from each other, along the edge of the Circle of Solomon, just inside the ring of salt. Occasionally, he had to mold the bases so they'd stay upright. He ran over the incantation for the spell in his mind as he worked. He'd used it enough times to have mostly memorized it, though only on much smaller scales before, and only in absolute emergencies. Which he guessed this qualified as. Despite Dean's cooperation so far.

Speaking of Dean, he could feel his eyes on him as he went along. As Sam slowly worked his way around the perimeter of the circle, he turned in his chair in order to watch him at all times. He didn't offer to help, though Sam couldn't think of a single reason why he would. This spell was meant to shut him down completely, everything but his thoughts. And his hands were still wrapped up so tightly that he wouldn't be much use at setting up candles.

When Sam finally finished, his leg was griping at him. It didn't like being in a kneeling position. Actually, it didn't like being in any position, but kneeling was the worse, next to crouching. He pushed himself up, and very briefly closed his eyes in relief when some of the pain vanished.

"This is the last step?" Dean asked from his chair, voice devoid of emotion.

"Just about," Sam replied after clearing his throat. If these candles had been made correctly, then all of them that had been cut out of their bundles would spontaneously burst into flame as soon as he lit one of them, to save time. They would all have to be put out individually, but he'd have plenty of time to do that once Dean was frozen.

Standing, more or less, back where he'd started, Sam dug the lighter he'd grabbed earlier out of his pocket. He flicked it as he bent to light the candle direction in front of the cell door.

As soon as the lighter had caught, Sam's nervous system stopped registering any signal beyond  _pain_. Every cell in his body lit up with hot agony. His eyes baked in their sockets. His tongue shriveled in his mouth. His hair was flaming against his skull. Every drop of liquid in his body had been replaced with fire, and he was vaguely aware of thrashing on the ground, screaming and scattering candles with his panicked movements. His eyes were wide open, but he was barely seeing anything at all through them as he beat useless at his legs and torso with both hands. Trying to put out the flames. One coherent thought surfaced in the wild flood of them:  _I'm burning alive._

But his clothes weren't falling to pieces, his skin wasn't actually crisping. It just felt like it.

In this kind of pain, unimaginable pain, pain that made him howl and scream up to God in a plea to die and end the unbearable agony, it was hard to focus on anything for more than half a second. But he slowly became aware, through bits and flashes, that his right hand was still clamped so tightly around the lighter that its dull, rounded edges were actually beginning to cut into his skin, sending blood whipping all over the place as he thrashed. And it was still lit. That was when he realized what must have happened.

The cursed lighter. The cursed lighter that someone had sent to him. He'd been stupid, he'd been careless, and he'd just put it on his desk, right next to his normal, safe lighter. He'd forgotten all about it over the last few days. He'd just been overwhelmed by everything else that had happened, which was also probably at least part of the reason that he'd scooped it up today without thinking about why there were two lighters on his desk.

At least he knew what the curse was, now.

Fire filled his throat and lungs as he shrieked, rolling in a useless effort to smother flames that would never die. It caught in his few fat deposits, feeding eagerly on the streaks in his muscle tissue. The water in his organs boiled, and they burst inside of him, popping like overfilled balloons. Tears streaked his face. But he must be weeping kerosene, because they were just making the flames burn hotter.

Somebody was shouting. He originally assumed that it was him, but no, the voice was too deep, and too far away. What was it saying? Maybe his name. Did he even have a name? Or was there just the fire?

Something suddenly came down on his chest, a lot of weight. Holding him in place so that he couldn't roll over or writhe anymore. He screamed in protest – that was the only thing that helped. But he was cut off as the pressure on his chest increased, crushing him. Why wasn't whatever this thing was being burned? Why wasn't it pulling away from the white-hot bonfire that he'd been turned into?

Then something, maybe the thing that was on his chest, hit the lighter in his hand with shocking force, and a couple of his fingers, too. The fingers ached and stung in protest, but the lighter was pried free. It flew between the bars of the gate, hit the floor, and clattered across it. He heard the flame put itself out with a hiss and the top snap closed.

The pain immediately halved when the lighter left his hand, and disappeared completely once the flame was out. Sam stared up through tear-blurry eyes at Dean as he stepped off of his chest, sucking in huge breaths with a throat that had gone raw from screaming. His whole body ached (especially his ribs, stomach, and head), probably completely covered in scrapes and bruises from him slamming himself into the floor again and again. And his hand hurt badly, wrist complaining and pinkie and ring finger still oddly stiff, but it was billions of times better than holding the lighter.

Dean was watching him, standing above. His eyes were human and his face was a mask of concern that Sam couldn't hope to distinguish from the real thing. He lowered himself, slowly and awkwardly with his arms bound, to his knees, like he wanted to be closer to Sam.

"You okay?" he asked, rough voice gone soft and worried. "There's a…a  _bad_  spell on that damn thing."

"I…I…" Sam tried to answer, but his throat was so torn up, and the burning had hurt so bad, that he couldn't. Fresh tears flooded his eyes. All his barriers were frazzled ashes right now, so he couldn't stop himself from starting to sob, shaking on the floor. He squeezed his eyes shut, ashamed and afraid. He couldn't even begin to imagine how pathetic he looked right now. And he was at the mercy of a Knight of Hell.

"Hey, hey, hey, Sammy," Dean soothed. God, he sounded so tender. "You're okay. It's okay. It's gone, it can't hurt you anymore. You're safe now, all right? I got rid of it."

"S-s-st…" The crying meant that Sam couldn't even talk without stuttering. He wanted to get out of the cell, away from Dean, but he couldn't. Almost all of his energy had been used up in his reaction to the curse, and the last of it was being poured into what he was doing right now.

"No, shhh." Warm breath that smelled faintly of sulfur (and blood) puffed against Sam's face. Dean must be leaning closer. He tried to cringe away, but no, he was so useless that the only thing he could seem to do was cry harder. "C'mon, deep breaths. You killed four powerful demons last night, in under twenty minutes, with only one working leg. "You're a badass. Lemme see that now."

"N-n-n." Sam's chest jumped. "N-no." He'd gotten a full word out. But that was hardly an accomplishment. "Weak. So weak." He choked on another sob.

"Yeah. Shut up," Dean responded. "Calm down, stop crying. Pretty sure I broke a couple of your fingers, or at least bruised 'em, and you need to get those wrapped up."

"J-j-just wanna d-die." It simply popped out. And he was so worn away that he couldn't tell if he meant it or not.

_"_ _No."_  The gust of air that carried the firm, stubborn word spread out against Sam's mouth, and it was hot. Dean must be so close now, because soon, his lips were touching Sam's, and they were even warmer than his breath. After what had just happened, Sam would've thought that he'd have the urge to shy away from heat of all kinds, but he liked this. It was nice. Gentle. Human.

Sam pushed back, up against Dean's soft, full mouth. He couldn't think right now, so his body just took over for him, acting on instinct and memory. He moved his jaw. Dean's lips willingly parted for him, and he tilted his head to give him a better angle. The taste of sulfur and blood wasn't exactly a pleasant one, but the contact mattered so much more than the flavor.

His tears slowly dried, and the painful hiccups that his sobbing had caused quieted. As he lifted his hands and buried his fingers in Dean's close-cropped, impossibly-soft blond hair, drawing him closer, even the memory of the burning pain began to fade away.


	14. Chapter Fourteen

_We've already been over how demons are made and exactly where they come from a couple times already, so I don't think that I need to remind you of that. I just want you to think back to it. All that torture, all that strain placed on the soul until it twists and parts slough off and it isn't a human spirit anymore – it's a demon. So, yeah, just think about that for a few minutes. Everything that I've described. The personal testimony from one of my demons that I included. And ask yourself this: do you really think that anything, even the nicest, kindest, most altruistic person you've ever come across, could come out of that with any human feeling at all?_

_We give all of that up when we "pass through the eye of Lucifer" (expression used by several older demons during interrogation) and become demons. Love, compassion, concern, loyalty, empathy, grief, guilt, regret, sorry…it's all gone. Any demon you see, no matter its class or its age or its level of power, can hate you. It can be angry with you. But it can't love you, and if it winds up killing you, it won't be able to feel bad about it later. This is how you know that, if a demon tells you it regrets doing something or misses someone, you can't trust a word that comes out of its mouth._

_There are quite a few demons that don't really make any effort to hide how narrow their emotional spectrum is. They might even try to psych you out by showing off how little they care, how inhuman they are. These demons are still pretty damn dangerous, just as much as any of the others, since they're cruel and strong and know more than a little about human weaknesses. They just come right out with what they are. In my opinion, though, the ones that lie and pretend and put on a show for you are a lot worse. They act like people. And wince we're all people (just going to assume here), we can't stop ourselves from opening up to them. Even though we're tough as nails and have been hunting for years. Even if it's just a little bit._

_And demons are a lot like sharks – they can smell blood in the water, or weakness, and the tiniest amount drives them into a frenzy. I know I've said this before, but let me repeat it: they'll seize on any kindness or even slack you give them, and use them to rip you apart._

_If you've got a demon in captivity, you just have to keep reading this sentence to yourself: Demons aren't human, and they aren't capable of human emotions, and you can't trust them._

\- Demons and Other Biblical Monsters _, Sam Winchester_

* * *

"Ah – careful, don't drop it," Dean warned, as Sam's wireless router, perched haphazardly on the edge of his desk, wobbled. Sam slapped one hand down on top of it, stabilizing it, as he fumbled through a knot of rubber-coated extension cords. "I  _might_  be able to catch it if it was inside my circle. And if I was really worked up. But definitely not out there."

"Well, that's interesting." Plugging the router in after a very brief, one-handed struggle, Sam rocked up onto his knees so that his head popped up over the edge of his desk. He moved the router away from the edge and into a safer area as the lights along its front began to blink orange. "Your powers are limited in strength  _and_  range by all the stuff that's on you right now." He gestured, very vaguely, in Dean's direction. "I need to write that down."

"Yeah, sure you do. Like you've taken  _any_  notes about me at all, so far," Dean replied. Holding onto the solid wood of his desk, Sam pulled himself up onto his feet with a groan. Crawling around and crouching for most of the morning in order to hook all the cables of his workstation back up had not put his leg in a good mood. "You're falling down on your job."

"Now's a good time to start back up again, then," Sam replied with a shrug, leaning across his desk in order to pat the top of his closed and dormant laptop. "Since everything's back out here now." Which was a huge relief, considering how crowded his bedroom had been getting with all of his word. Work that he had, admittedly, been neglecting lately, but he felt like he had a few good excuses.

"Yeah, I can just imagine the kinda notes that you're gonna take," Dean agreed. He was standing at the very edge of his circle, in front of the gate that led into his cell, rocking back and forth like he had been since Sam got up this morning. Maybe he just liked moving. His arms and hands were still bound, but that didn't stop him from opening his palms in front of his face like he was holding a book. "'Dear Diary: Today, Dean  _finally_  kissed me. I can't believe it, I'm sooo exci – "

"Okay." Sam held up his hands and cut off Dean's ridiculous falsetto. "Okay, okay. I get it." He limped out from behind his desk. "Aaaand that reminds me. We've…" He took a deep breath, held it for a few seconds, then let it out. "We've gotta talk."

"That doesn't sound good," Dean noted, shaking his head. He really didn't look all that concerned, now. He had been in a better mood than Sam had ever seen him in since…well, since yesterday, actually. "Is this the 'let's-be-friends' talk?"

"Uh…no." Sam shook his head, then glanced towards the back door. "No, it's not…we just need to…" He blew out a deep breath as he abruptly realized that he had no idea what to say. Dean had been shockingly good company so far this morning, polite and happy and nowhere near as bloodthirsty as demons usually tended to be around Sam – or as he had been at first. He hadn't brought up what had happened yesterday more than a couple times, and always casually. He'd taken Sam's mind off of Vaughn and everything else. But it wasn't easy anymore – this was complicated. Definitely not the light banter that had allowed him to focus mostly on the cords. "Just – just stay here."

"You really think I'm going anywhere?" Dean asked, arching an eyebrow and rattling his chains. Sam didn't answer his question as he walked past him and stepped into the boots that sat next to the back door. It was a quick trip out to the shed, and he was glad that he kept the contents so organized, because he was easily able to find the boltcutters and the hacksaw, even though he hadn't used either in a long time.

Dean took a few steps away from the door of his cell when Sam came back in, carrying the tools. He eyed them warily, but was half-smiling as he asked, "Should I be worried?"

"Gordon didn't leave me the keys to your chains or cuffs or anything," Sam replied, tucking the tools underneath one of his arms as he picked out the gate key and put it in the lock. "And I don't feel like spending an hour or two picking them. My fingers are pretty tired as it is from untangling all those stupid cords – no idea how they got like that, since it's barely been two weeks and I haven't touched 'em."

Both of Dean's eyebrows rose. Sounding a little incredulous, he asked, "You're not seriously…taking these off of me, are you?" He rattled his chains again.

In answer, Sam pushed the door open and stepped inside with his tools.

"Don't you think I'm  _dangerous_?" His voice went up just a little on that last word.

"Not enough to warrant all that," Sam replied, nodding to Dean's restraints. "C'mon, Dean. Lemme see your hands. I wanna get those cuffs off of you."

Very slowly, Dean stepped forward, and offered his wrists as best he could with the chains still wrapped around his arms and chest. Sam raised the boltcutters. They snipped easily through the narrow chain between the two bracelets of his cuffs.

"That completely disables their power," Sam told Dean. "They have to be connected for the runes to work. "I've actually made a couple sets myself."

"Really," Dean replied, examining the separated cuffs with bright, intelligent green eyes. "You're obviously a man of many talents, Sam."

The chain was next (it quickly became apparent that it was just one chain, looped and crossed many, many times). It was anchored to itself with small rings at several points and, of course, to the collar around Dean's neck and the handcuffs that he'd just cut apart, so Sam had to sever it a couple different times. It was definitely harder to cut through than the cuffs had been. When he was done, it slithered off of Dean and dropped to the ground with a loud, metallic  _clang._ The demon groaned as, very slowly, he straightened out his stiff arms.

"Feel good?" Sam asked softly, watching.

"You've got  _no_  idea," Dean replied as he almost reverently shook his head.

Sam leaned against the wall, feet planted firmly on the floor, and watched Dean for a few minutes as he worked all the kinks and cramps out of his upper body. The bracelets of the handcuffs rattled up and down his wrists as he swung his arms with his eyes closed and a look of pure bliss on his face. Sam knew that they'd probably end up bothering him in the future, but he didn't know how to get them off. The boltcutters wouldn't do it, and they were too close around his wrists for Sam to feel comfortable using the hacksaw.

He'd probably heal just fine, if Sam happened to cut into him. But the idea of slicing into living flesh (especially because it wasn't really Dean's to begin with) just wasn't one that he could even entertain for more than a few seconds at a time.

After a little under ten minutes of exaggerated stretching that Dean obviously enjoyed, Sam pushed off the wall again, clearing his throat and scooping the hacksaw up from where he'd set it on the floor. He got Dean's attention; the Knight glanced at him over one bare shoulder. There were indentations in his cream-colored skin where the chain had been pressing into him for weeks now.

"All right," Sam announced. "Let's get that collar off of you, now. And then I really wanna take a look at that stab wound on your chest." He tapped his own solar plexus with the tip of the hacksaw in order to demonstrate what he was talking about.

"You wanna get rid of the collar?" Dean turned around to face Sam, reaching up to grab onto the collar around his neck. He grinned. "But, Sam. C'mon. Think of the kinky possibilities."

"Lemme have it," Sam replied, unmoved by the playful note in Dean's voice. He took a step forward and reached for the collar with his free hand, but the demon was a little too quick for him, a few fast steps taking him out of range.

"What? You totally vanilla or something?" Dean asked, grin widening. Sam privately thought that he was way too amused by this. "No way. Not you. You board  _monsters_  for a living – you've gotta need a little excitement in the bedroom, too." He evaded another grab from Sam. "Don't you like the idea of leading me around on a leash?"

"If you wanna run around in a collar all day, then I'll buy you one," Sam answered. Dean finally allowed himself to be caught. "With your name on it and everything. But  _this_  one has gotta go – seriously, it can't be comfortable."

"You'll buy me one?" Dean repeated, smiling. "Aw, baby, you know I get all hot and bothered when you say you're gonna get me things."

Sam snorted and went to work, grateful for the fact that Dean stayed perfectly still while he was sawing at the ring of metal around his neck. This was different from the handcuffs – much bigger and much looser, so he wasn't nearly as worried about cutting Dean's vessel. He sawed through the left side first, then the right, then tossed it onto the chain. That was about the time that he realized that he had no idea how Gordon had gotten the collar onto Dean. It didn't have a hinge or a lock. It probably wasn't quite big enough to fit over his head. He almost asked Dean about it, then decided he didn't care.

Dean reached up, fingers running over the smooth, uncovered skin of his neck and collarbone. He briefly closed his eyes, murmuring, "Feels good to be a free demon."

"You're still in a cell," Sam pointed out, picking up the boltcutters in his free hand and walking towards the door. He wanted to put them back where he'd gotten them, just to procrastinate. Put off the talk that he  _needed_  to have with Dean.

He was interrupted, though. Callused hands suddenly grabbed his wrists from behind, yanking them swiftly backwards and sending the tools flying uselessly out of his grip. His arms were pinned between his back and the flat muscles of Dean's chest in less than a second. A forearm crossed his shoulders, holding them tightly, and a hand buried itself in his ample hair. Breath ghosted across his ear and the side of his face as he froze, staring straight ahead.

"Yeah," Dean agreed softly, speaking right in his ear. "But the difference between now and then is that, now, I can kill you."

Sam swallowed. It took him a couple of seconds to find his voice – this version of Dean was much more like the one he'd dealt with at the very beginning. The one he'd been afraid of. For one absurd moment, he was oddly comforted by that. "You won't, though."

"You don't sound very sure, Sammy." Dean's fingers tightened incrementally in his hair. "What would make you say that?"

"You're never getting outta here without me," Sam replied.

"You think they're not gonna send more demons to spring me?" Dean countered. "I'm their last Knight and Cain refuses to make any more. They won't stop until I'm free."

"Cain?" Sam repeated, turning his head, very slightly, to the side. Interest suddenly replaced his fear. "Like, as in, 'Cain and Abel' Cain? What happened to Alastair?"

He felt Dean stiffen, and guessed that he'd let something slip that he hadn't actually meant to. Sam couldn't stop a flash of smugness at that realization.

"D'you have any idea how easy it'd be for me to snap your neck right now?" Dean threatened, rather than answering Sam's questions.

"Why'd you kick the lighter out of my hand last night, Dean?" was Sam's quiet response.

Dean was really pulling on his hair; it was actually starting to hurt him quite a bit. The demon was silent for a few heartbeats, before saying, "I wanted you to get those chains off me."

"If those other demons who're coming for you can get you outta this Circle," Sam replied, "then they could've dealt with the chains. Eventually. Tell me the real reason." He turned his head fully now, in order to look Dean in the eye. "And while you're at it, tell me why you thought that it was a good idea to kiss me, too." He paused. "You didn't break my fingers, by the way."

Dean snorted, ignoring what Sam had added on, and pulled his hand out of Sam's hair – which was a huge relief to his scalp. "Tell me why you kissed back."

"Uh, eight-year dry spell," Sam began, almost automatically. "Intense emotional distress." He looked at Dean again. "Attractive vessel."

Surprise and pleasure, equally brief, flickered across Dean's face, before he let go of Sam and stepped back with a snort, freeing him. "So that's why you treated that djinn like you did."

"You're not gonna kill me?" Sam asked, turning and deciding not to start up a discussion about his feelings towards Nadia. He didn't think that now was the time to talk about how complicated his sexuality was.

"No fun if you're not gonna fight it," Dean replied. He turned his back to Sam, walked across the cell. Sam walked after him, stopped him with a calm hand on his shoulder, and pushed with the heel of it until he was facing him again. Then he peeled off the gauze pad taped over his wound. There was no blood on it, and the skin was fresh and pink between the stitches. Sam pressed his fingertips to it, clinical, and Dean let him.

It was insane, how calm he felt right now even though he was inches away from –  _touching_  – the creature who had just barely threatened to kill him by breaking his neck. He should be terrified. He should have left the cell, run away from Dean just like he had done all the other times. And he shouldn't be feeling like he wouldn't actually hurt him, because the thing in front of him had been engineered in the bowls of Hell to be a sadist and a psychopath. Trust was something to be reserved for beings like Vaughn. Because if he had been domesticated, then Dean was definitely feral.

Dean watched Sam probe at his fast-healing wound for several minutes, silent as he felt it and the skin around it out. Then, abruptly, he spoke up: "It was hurting you."

Startled out of his thoughts, Sam glanced up at him, blinking. "Huh?"

"The – the cursed thing. The lighter." Dean coughed, then cleared his throat. "It was hurting you."

Sam's brain was still on scar tissue and dissolvable stitches (and Vaughn), so it took a second for that statement to sing in. When it did, he blankly asked, "And…you cared about that?"

 _"_ _No,"_  Dean replied, instantly and vehemently. "I haven't  _cared_  about anything but me and mine for three thousand years. I just saw that it was hurting you, and I decided to get rid of it. End of story."

"No human emotions at all," Sam stated, skeptical.

"Nope," Dean confirmed. "None of your pansy-ass feelings got in the way. Whole damn point of being a demon, Freud."

"And what about the kissing?" Sam asked neutrally, as he balled the gauze and tape up and stuffed it into the pocket of his jeans.

"Sex and violence," Dean proclaimed, putting both hands on his bare chest. "I've still got urges, and you're the only available piece of ass around here, with the djinn dead. I just need to fuck something raw every once in a while." Green eyes raked appreciatively up and down Sam's body. The gesture seemed exaggerated to him. "Not all that opposed to it being you."

"Well, you had every chance to do that yesterday," Sam pointed out. "I'm sure you could tell how tired I was, after that. It was like an epileptic seizure." He showed Dean his arms, which his T-shirt left bare. Bruises, some barely visible and others nearly black, marred the naturally-tan skin, even running under the healing cut on his forearm. "I was hurting pretty bad, too. Between those two things, I could barely move a muscle. There's no way I could've fought back if you ripped my pants off then." Dean's hands rose from where they'd been dangling at his sides, and he caught one of Sam's arms before he could draw it back. His eyes flicked over the bruises like he was memorizing them. "But you didn't do that."

Dean lifted his eyes to Sam's, and they stared at each other in silence for a couple of seconds. Then his eyes suddenly flicked to black and he stated, "Sometimes you hiccup."

Well, that came out of the blue. "What?" Sam cocked his head, squinting. Maybe he'd heard wrong.

"Sometimes you hiccup," Dean repeated, dropping Sam's heavily-bruised arm and taking a step back. Putting some distance between them. "Reflex from when you had gills – that's what I've heard, at least. And sometimes I kiss real nice." His eyes returned to normal. "Reflex from when I had a soul."

Sam snorted, a sound of disbelief that he couldn't hold back, and shook his head as he stared down at his bare feet and folded his arms across his chest.

"I think you should go take those notes about me now," Dean said.

Sam turned his head back as Dean walked away, then sprawled into the chair he'd provided for him. He wasn't ready to leave yet, he realized. He wasn't content with being lied to.

He had no idea how he'd come to the conclusion that Dean wasn't telling him the truth. He just  _knew_  it.

He watched Dean tip his head back in order to stare up at the spray paint devil's trap on the ceiling, making a big show out of ignoring the fact that Sam was still in the cell. Sam knew that he shouldn't be, but he was bothered by the role-reversal – he'd made a huge effort to ignore Dean when he'd been constantly rattling his chains and when he'd been trying to talk to him, shouting at him from across the cabin. It was an unpleasant feeling to have a cold shoulder turned to him for no reason, since it wasn't like he was personally attacking Dean. Laying siege to sleep patterns that were precarious as they were and picking away at open wounds on his psyche.

Frustration boiled inside of him, an acidic taste creeping into his mouth, and before he could even think about censoring himself, words were pouring out. Harsh. Edged with anger. Each one sent pain shooting up his bad leg as he walked towards Dean.

"It was a wendigo," he began abruptly, with no warning. Dean's eyes flicked back to him as he raised his head, and for a second, Sam was gratified because he was paying attention to him again. "When I was seventeen. My dad was a hunter, and so was I – ever since I was six months old. I wasn't quite born into it, but almost."

Dean blinked, and it was slow once again. Sam thought of lizards, frogs, cold, inhuman things staring blankly out through a pane of glass as they squatted under a heat lamp. He'd never liked reptiles. Or amphibians, for that matter.

"What was a wendigo?" he asked, shaking his head. Sam just kept talking as if he'd never opened his mouth.

"It was in Vermont," he said. "Early November, so the leaves'd all changed colors, and there were a ton of hikers and picnickers and everything. So many of them kept going missing; the thing was stocking up for the winter. It'd gotten so bad that the FBI had been called in, but they had no idea what they were up against. They thought it was some kinda cult. They weren't letting people into the forest, but Dad and I managed to get past them."

Dean was really listening in earnest now, and Sam could tell that he was interested. He'd slung one leg over the other and cocked his head to the side. His eyes were fixed, creepily unblinking, on him.

"We knew that it'd denned up in the pines, where nobody ever went," he continued. "'Cause, y'know, there weren't any leaves to look at up there. We hiked up with extra sets of lighters and backpacks full of Molotov cocktails. Because fire's the only way to kill a wendigo."

"I know that," Dean spoke up, quietly. "I know all about wendigoes."

Sam chose to ignore that. "We were stupid. We didn't know that it'd found a cave system, and when we stumbled on an opening, we didn't know how far down it went. This wasn't our first wendigo hunt. We knew the drill. We figured we'd be done in time to grab some burgers at the local diner. But this thing…I don't know, it must've been older than all the others we'd ever gone after, because it was  _smart_." He reached up, and rubbed at his face. "It separated us, first. Lured us in deep. Then it  _played_  with us, imitated our voices...when we finally found each other again, near an exit, it was waiting. Killed Dad, one swipe." He demonstrated with a flick of his wrist. "Claws were like freaking cutlasses. It got my leg, and there was no way I could walk. I dragged myself out into the light while it was – while it was busy with my dad. I passed out. And it would've eaten me, too, if the FBI hadn't found me before nightfall."

"The FBI?" Dean asked, sounding incredulous. "The damn  _FBI_  saved your ass? You gotta be kidding me. They're useless."

"Apparently not here," Sam replied. "They got me to a hospital. I was pretty out of it; I told them my dad was dead, and they did eventually find his body." What had been left of it, at least. "I was still a minor, so they hunted down my next of kin. Apparently, my dad had set Ellen Harvelle up as that." He cleared his throat. "They were friends. She runs the – "

"I know her."

Sam paused after Dean's interruption. He was a little surprised. He guessed that it wasn't inconceivable that the name "Ellen Harvelle" would have made the rounds through infernal circles, but Dean hadn't said that he knew who she was. He'd said that he knew her.

Maybe he hadn't meant it like that. Maybe he had. Either way, Sam made a snap decision not to push it right then.

"They gave me to her," he said. "And I stayed with her and her daughter, at their Roadhouse, for about two years. Healing. It took a long time – probably because I had an infection in my leg that just wouldn't clear up." He smiled humorlessly. "I guess wendigoes don't sterilize their claws."

"But what about that wendigo?" Dean asked. There was an edge to his voice that Sam didn't understand. "You went back and killed it, right? For what it did to you and your dad?"

Sam snorted. "I might've wanted to. But I was in a wheelchair for six months. Then on crutches for almost a year. And, after that, I had to use a cane. I couldn't even kill a butterfly, and I knew it. So another hunter took care of it for me without me ever even asking about it. Older guy. Bobby."

Dean visibly twitched. The expression on his face didn't change, though. "Bobby."

"Heard of him?" Sam asked, a little dryly. Instead of answering the question, Dean posed one of his own: "Where is he now?"

"Gone," Sam replied, and felt grief that was still just a little too fresh well like arterial blood in his chest. "Disappeared a few years back." Dean moved. It wasn't much, but it was something. Sam committed the reaction to memory. "This cabin, though…this place was his." He turned, glancing around. "He gave it to me."

Dean cleared his throat. "Really."

"He was the one who first suggested that I do what I'm doing now," Sam answered. "He said that, even if I was outta the field, I didn't have to retire. I didn't have to be useless."

Dean didn't respond to that. His eyes slid away from Sam, just slightly, and his mouth worked like he was chewing at something inside of it. After a few seconds of complete silence between the two of them, he shook his head in apparent frustration. Looking back up at Sam, he demanded, "Why the hell're you telling me all of this? That your dad's dead. What happened to your stupid leg. This is – this shit's  _personal,_ Sam, about as personal as it gets, and I'm the  _last_  one you should be trusting it with."

Sam, unruffled because he knew all of that already, replied, "I told you why I suck at being a hunter. Now you can tell me why you suck at being a demon."

Dean looked completely taken aback. For about a second. Then his expression smoothed out into one of clear irritation and, after rolling his eyes, he snapped, "You are  _not_  still on that."

"Uh, yeah, I am." Sam folded his arms across his broad chest, firm and unmoving, and stared Dean down. "I'm just curious, Dean. Why do you have human tendencies?"

"I don't," Dean replied instantly. "They're all gone. Left 'em behind in the Pit." His eyes went black again. "If you're some hotshot demon researcher, shouldn't you  _know_  that?"

"If you're an ice-cold, blood-loving Knight of Hell," Sam returned without missing a beat, "shouldn't you have done something besides  _kiss_  me last night?"

Dean's only response was to get up and walk to the other side of the Circle. Sam followed him, hardly read to give up. He wasn't afraid of any reaction Dean might have.

"Is it because you know Ellen and Bobby?" Sam demanded. He wanted answers. "Did one of them catch you, like Gordon did? Talk to you?"

"No – leave me alone," Dean snapped, whirling around and glaring at Sam. His eyes were still black.

"You shouldn't've been able to do what you did yesterday," Sam replied. "Was it Ellen or Bobby?"

"I didn't – Gordon was the first hunter I ran into, okay?" Dean snapped, shaking his head. "After I…" He trailed off, and shook his head again.

Sam, however, seized on it. "You knew them before." The excitement that suddenly bloomed inside of him began to creep into his voice, onto his face. "You knew them when you were human."

"Leave," Dean ordered. His back was to Sam now, so he couldn't see his face, but it sounded like he was gritting his teeth.

"When you said three thousand years," Sam continued, ignoring him, "you meant Hell-time. You…how long have you been dead, Dean? Only about twenty years? Thirty?"

"Why the hell does it  _matter_ so damn much to you?" Dean demanded furiously, turning again. His eyes were black, once again. And Sam, once again, wasn't afraid of him. He knew that he could hurt him. But he also knew that he wouldn't.

"Ellen and Bobby ran in very specific circles," Sam replied, not really answering the question. He got the feeling that Dean didn't really want an answer, anyway. He just wanted him to stop talking. "Ellen still does. There's only one way you could've met the two of them."

He had stopped walking, and so had Dean. They were standing a few feet away from each other, close enough to touch. Close enough for Sam to feel the tension and discomfort that was just pouring off of Dean, thick enough for him to cut with a knife. It didn't stop him from speaking, though. From continuing. He knew that he was right, but he had to see Dean's reaction when he spoke his realization out loud.

"You were a hunter when you were alive," Sam said. His voice had unintentionally dropped into a soft murmur, which he felt was oddly appropriate. "You were like me."

Just because Dean couldn't teleport within the confines of the Circle didn't mean that he couldn't still move inhumanly fast. Sam didn't see him take a few steps forward, and he didn't register the scrape of his boots of the cement until later. But he definitely felt it when Dean's open palms smashed into his chest, shoving him violently backwards, the furious strength behind the blow almost guaranteed to leave hand-shaped bruises on his pectorals.

"I was never  _anything_  like you!" Dean was shouting now, and the rage in his voice would have been obvious even if Sam hadn't been looking at his face – twisted up, blotched red under his freckles, eyes black and soulless. "I wasn't  _weak_  – I wasn't  _pathetic_ – I didn't let anything  _ruin_  me." Every emphasized word was accompanied by another shove, not as strong as the first one but just as angry. "I didn't  _ever_ let myself  _fall in love_  with the monsters that I ganked. I saw 'em like they were." Sam was being steadily herded back towards the gate by Dean's pushes, stumbling each time he was forced off-balance and usually just barely catching himself. He didn't fight back – just maintained steady, mild eye contact. Because he still wasn't afraid. Maybe something had snapped in his brain and he was seconds away from having his guts clawed out and thrown in his face by a Knight of Hell, but he wasn't afraid. "I was strong, okay? I was good at what I did. I was the  _best_." Dean's hands clenched into fists now, as Sam steadied himself from that last shove. "I was –  _nothing_ like you. And you're not anything like I was."

He gave Sam one final push, shoving him where he was standing and trying to stop himself from swaying. It was stronger than all of them except for the very first one. And this was the one that he couldn't bounce back from, Sam immediately knew. He stepped back, onto his bad leg, and it buckled under him, exhausted and agonized. He wasn't exactly surprised. He was ready to hit the ground, struggle back to his feet, and leave, since Dean pretty obviously wanted him out of the cell.

That didn't happen, though. One of the same hands that had been bettering at his chest for the last few minutes caught his upper arm and hauled him up, standing him back on his feet. Dean put his other hand on Sam's opposite arm and held him steady, making sure he didn't fall again. He studied him with black eyes, then blinked and changed them back to green. Sam realized he was breathing hard and fast, and struggled to get his lungs back under control.

"But none of that matters, does it?" Dean asked, sounding infinitely calmer now. And sad, even, rather than angry. "Not anymore. That's all gone now."

Sam swallowed, then lifted a hand. Dean let go of him as he did, but didn't move back, allowing him to tentatively touch his shoulder. Neither of them broke eye contact, and Sam noticed blossoming crow's feet at the corners of Dean's. Wrinkles that came from smiling or squinting in the sun.

"I'm sorry," Sam said. He gave Dean's shoulder a quick squeeze. "I shouldn't've pushed so hard."

"'S your job, isn't it?" Dean replied.

"No. I didn't need to know that," Sam admitted, shaking his head. "I need – I need to know how to kill you." He chuckled hollowly. "Not what you did before you became a demon."

"Well, if I knew, I'd tell you how to get rid of me," Dean said dryly. "I've been a whole lot more trouble to you than I'm probably worth." Sam stayed silent, because any protest that he voiced would have sounded insincere. Dean looked away from him for a second, appearing to forget about the hand on his shoulder, and shook his head wordlessly. "Hurts to remember, Sam. Lotta holes."

Sam had never heard that before from a demon, no matter its caste, age, or anything else. The memories of their human lives had faded, definitely. Dulled by years and other, more exciting experiences, which he guessed made sense. None of them were interested in talking about the time that they'd spent as people. But they'd never claimed that it  _hurt_  before – or that there were actual gaps in their memories.

"I didn't…" Sighing, Sam lowered his hand from Dean's shoulder. "I'm sorry. I didn't know." Dean's funky memory could wait to be analyzed. Sam had decided to mend fences before allowing himself to slip into his "scientist" mindset.

"No way you could've, so you don't have to apologize." Sam's breath stuttered in surprise for a second, when Dean suddenly took both of his hands in his own. He hoped the demon hadn't noticed. "I'm really…look, Sam." He cleared his throat. "I'm the one who should be apologizing, here. For all that stuff I said. I didn't mean any of it, I guess I just – wanted to hurt you."

"'Cause – you were in pain," Sam guessed, dipping his chin in half a nod. "'Cause it hurts to remember."

"Yeah," Dean agreed, the word coming out short and snappy.

"But you don't wanna hurt me now." Sam didn't phrase it as a question, and was sure that Dean wouldn't take it as one. He studied the face of his vessel. The last thing he wanted to think about right now was that that face didn't actually belong to Dean, that it was a family member he'd exploited, but it popped into his head anyway. He did his best to push it away. He wasn't sure why he couldn't face it.

"Nnno." Dean drew the word out of himself with some hesitation. Sam watched him carefully. "I don't." He paused. "I didn't last night, either."

"You're not acting like a demon," Sam replied, shaking his head. Dean rolled his eyes, suddenly fierce again.

"Oh,  _fuck off_ , Winchester."

Dean's hands moved to Sam's hips, and Sam made a soft noise of shock as he was suddenly pulled forward. A blush flamed across his face embarrassingly quickly as he realized that Dean was half-hard in his chewed-up jeans, and as he began to perk up himself. It'd been so long, and the demon's vessel really was so attractive, and he touched him so well. As exemplified by the one hand that he suddenly spread in the small of Sam's back and the other that he tangled up in his long hair in order to hold him in place – a gentle parody of when he'd been threatening to break his neck earlier.

"Why are you like this?" Sam asked, arms creeping loosely around Dean's waist.

"I don't know," Dean replied, then pulled Sam down to his pink, pillowy mouth, and Sam just stopped wondering what the hell was going on for a while.


	15. Chapter Fifteen

**If anyone's interested in the art that goes along with this story:** <http://yanyann.livejournal.com/15556.html>

* * *

 

_Hunting isn't exactly a risk-free occupation._

_I just thought I'd throw the obvious out there before we get going._

_If you're reading this, you either hunt yourself, or you know someone who does, which means that you know that hunting pares a life expectance down more than firefighting or professional skydiving or serving in the army. If "hunter" were a legitimate occupation, no one would insure us._

_Unexpected shit (sorry about the language, but you should really be used to it) is pretty par for the course in our line of work. You get hurt – I'm living proof of that. You get killed. You get turned. Your memories get wiped. You get bumped into an alternate dimension, like Faerieland (which exists, yeah, click_ ** _here_ ** _to read about it), and can't get out. You just disappear. You can't predict exactly when you're going to get taken out of the game, or what's going to do it. Anyone who says they can give you the details is lying._

_That's why it's important to get your affairs in order as soon as you possibly can. If you've got a free weekend or whatever, this is just as important as your arsenal and your collection of lore. More important, actually, because it's what's going to come out when those two things fail you._

_You're going to need the legal stuff, of course. A will. Power of attorney, just in case whatever gets you doesn't quite finish killing you. A windfall for your family, probably. But you need to tie up stuff besides that. Make sure that at least one other hunter knows where you are at all times, so that if you die on a case, someone can come in right away and finish what you started. Tell the important people in your life what they mean to you. Pay your debts. Arrange for someone to feed your pets and water your plants. Do whatever it is you need to – just be ready at all times._

-  _"_ _Preparing for the Worst: Part One," posted on website of Sam Winchester_

* * *

The mist curled over the edges of the cooler, wrapping around the heavy, thick gloves on Sam's hands. It dripped to the wooden floor, quickly dissipating as he kicked through it with his booted feet. Inside of its foam container, it boiled and rocked with the movement of his gait. About half of it tipped out and rolled down his stomach and thighs as he stepped over the low threshold into Dean's cell, and there was no sensation to it but a very mild, faint chill.

"Okay. Whoa." Dean got to his feet as Sam walked in, eyes wide with interest. He'd been straddling the chair that'd been provided for him, the back of it facing the open gate. Waiting for Sam. "What've you got there?"

"Dry ice," Sam replied. "Coldest thing I've got."

"You just keep dry ice lying around?" Dean asked, skeptical. He gave Sam and his cooler a wide berth as he walked further into the cell and set it down. "Why'd you bring it in here?"

"Well, I guess that I could've done it outside," Sam replied with a shrug, reaching into one of the pockets of his jeans. "But I figured that you'd wanna watch this. If not help." He was still wearing the big, bulky work gloves, so it took him a couple seconds to find what he was looking for. But his leather-covered fingers eventually closed on something thin and slippery, and he pulled out a plastic bag with an unassuming lighter in it and dangled it in front of Dean.

Dean grimaced, but didn't lean away or jump back or anything. He obviously knew what he was looking at, but Sam would have been surprised if he didn't, considering that he'd kicked it out of his hand the day before yesterday in an effort to help him. He reached up and tentatively took it, feeling it through the plastic. Sam let him.

"Jesus, Sam," Dean commented, shaking his head as he spun the thing lightly, plastic bag and all, between his fingertips. His fingers were surprisingly nimble, for being so large and rough. "Should you really be carrying this thing around in your pocket?" His voice lowered conspiratorially as he leaned forward a little. "Don't you realize what it could burn off?"

"Yeah. I thought about that." Unimpressed, Sam took the lighter back. "It's only dangerous if it's lit while it's touching your skin. I ran through a bunch of stuff on spells and curses last night, after…y'know." After they had finished kissing. Finished sitting in each other's laps on the carved-up floor in the fading light. Finished touching each other, and watching each other, and remaining completely silent about exactly how they felt towards each other. "And I think that it's a pretty basic fire charm. Which I know how to neutralize."

"You mean you're gonna kill it with dry ice," Dean summarized. "Seems like there should be an easier way. How come you don't just break it?"

"Actually, you  _can_ get rid of weaker charms that way," Sam replied, taking the lighter carefully out of the bag. "Destroying their host. So I tried to smash it with a hammer before I went to the trouble of getting the dry ice outta the freezer." He offered Dean a tight, regretful smile. "It melted the hammer."

"Jeez." Dean examined the lighter in Sam's hand with new appreciation. "Wow. That's a lotta power – what I don't get is why you'd waste something like that on a lighter."

"You tell me," Sam said with a shrug, delving into his pockets again and coming out with another baggy, this one holding about half a cup of watery, brownish gunk.

"I just  _asked_  you."

"No, but…" Sam lifted his eyes from where he'd been working the baggie open, looking at Dean. He looked so relaxed right now, Sam noted. So…human. Knowing what he was, though, and what he was capable of, both coming from the first week and a half or so that he'd been here, it was creepy. Or, well. Maybe it was a little endearing. "You can lay curses." Half a beat of silence passed before he had to add, uncertainly, "Right?"

"Only witches can do curses," Dean responded, folding his arms across his chest and shaking his head.

"Right," Sam agreed, nodding. "And most witches draw their power from demons. It takes a handful of garden-variety demons to give one of them enough juice for a curse, but demons at your level…they can just do it. Sins, Knights, Lords." He paused for breath, then fixated on that last one. "Lords. Your, uh, Alastair is a Lord, right? White eyes? Maybe yellow?" Dean noticeably stiffened as he spoke. Sam cleared his throat, and, very tentatively, pushed on. "Didn't he teach you? Or tell you about this?"

"Uh, no. No." Dean cleared his throat, shaking his head again, then raised a hand in order to rub at his mouth. "He didn't. I didn't know I could do that." He let his hand drop, then stared at Sam, a little bleakly. Sam opened his mouth to say something, but Dean beat him to it. "Please tell me that that's not what I think it is." He nodded to the baggie.

"Holy water," Sam answered, shaking it in Dean's face and grinning as he jerked violently away. "Rock salt. Rowan sawdust. Iron filings. And the last of my saint's blood."

"Your what?" Dean asked dubiously. Then he shook his head once again. "No, no, I don't really wanna know, I don't care. Just…what're you gonna do with that stuff?" He looked wary, shifting back and forth just a little, like he thought Sam was going to throw it at him.

"I'm gonna cover the lighter with it," Sam replied, finally getting the bag open and dropping the lighter into it. He kept speaking after closing it back up and starting to shake it around. "That's what I need to do to break the charm. That, and then I need to drop it into something cold. Like dry ice. And then it'll be safe." He smirked a little. "Of course, the lighter'll be ruined, but I'm not sure that that's such a big deal."

"Do I need goggles?" Dean asked, watching Sam fish the lighter out, the mixture dripping off of it and running in rivulets down the metallic sides.

"I don't think it's gonna explode," Sam replied, but Dean took a large step backwards anyway. He guessed that he couldn't blame him, considering how bad this mixture would hurt if any of it got on him.

Sam dropped the lighter into the cooler full of dry ice.

Nothing super exciting happened, but, then again, Sam hadn't really expected it to. The metal clattered against the ice, then there was a fizzing sound, and a puff of orange-brown smoke rolled up through the cool mist wafting back and forth inside the Styrofoam box. Sam reached down into it and pulled the lighter out, showing it to a mildly-interested Dean. It had rusted instantaneously and extensively, rough and flaking with holes eaten through the metal in several places. It looked like all the fuel had drained out.

"Wow. That's sorta interesting, I guess." Dean slipped his thumbs into the pockets of his jeans, which were starting to look a little grungier than normal, after two straight weeks spent in them. They'd been covered with dirt and blood even when he first arrived, and Dean definitely didn't sweat or anything like a human would, but still. "So it's safe now?"

"It's safe," Sam confirmed, nodding. "I can just go ahead and throw it away. Unless you want it, of course."

He offered the lighter to Dean, who smirked and shook his head. "I don't think so."

"You don't wanna be reminded that I owe you my ass?" Sam pressed. When Dean scowled at him, he closed his fingers around the lighter and drew it back. "All right. If you're sure. I'll just throw it away."

"Yeah, you do that." Dean turned around and went back to his chair, sinking into it and spreading his legs casually as he regarded Sam. "So." He cleared his throat, folding his arms across his chest. "What's next on the agenda?"

"Well, we got rid of the lighter," Sam replied, scooping up the cooler full of dry ice. He'd dump it outside, let it melt off. "The cabin's clean…I've written down everything that I know about you…"

Dean, staring at nothing in particular, pushed his cheek out with the tip of his tongue before glancing at Sam and quietly asking, "Everything?"

"Everything relevant," Sam amended, understanding, more or less, why Dean was worried. "Anyway. Everything that absolutely  _had_  to be finished today is, and it's not even known. Which I guess means that I can focus on…personal projects, now."

A lewd grin crept over Dean's face, and he adjusted himself, so that both of his dark nipples and the impressive bulge in his jeans were fully visible to Sam. He reached up and laced his fingers together behind his head, handcuffs sliding down his wrists. Sam was caught between rolling his eyes and actually getting aroused – god, he was desperate.

"'Personal projects'?" Dean repeated, and Sam tore his eyes away from the puff of dark blond down under each arm.

"You need a bath," he replied, walking over to Dean's chair. When he reached him, he balanced the cooler on one hip with the hand that he still held the lighter in, and used his other to tug, critically, at the fraying waistband of Dean's jeans. "And new clothes."

"Yeah, 'cause you tore up all my old ones," Dean shot back, folding his arms again. "What're you gonna do? Just have me stand up against the wall and hose me off?"

"You'll get two buckets," Sam recited. He'd given this speech about a million times before, to those monsters who needed to bathe regularly. "One full of warm soapy water, one full of cool fresh water. You'll get two washcloths, too, and a towel. You can do whatever you want with them."

"A sponge bath?" Dean asked, as Sam turned and walked out of the cell. He just left the gate open, which he'd started doing after the time he'd spent with Dean yesterday. "I want a shower."

Sam paused and glanced over his shoulder, momentarily thinking of Vaughn. After a couple of seconds had passed, during which Dean widened his eyes expectantly, he said, "Yeah, maybe in a few weeks."

Dean muttered something under his breath as Sam left, and he was honestly kind of glad that he couldn't make it out. Once he was through the back door and in his yard (and he only used the term as loosely as possible, considering that he didn't have any grass or a fence), he hiked out to toss the lighter on the increasingly-overgrown trash pile, and the dry ice was dumped out onto a patch of bare earth, far away from any trees other other plants. He watched the mist – steam – billow off of it in a specific direction, indicating a breeze so light that Sam couldn't even really feel it.

He liked being outside, usually. On a normal day, standing out under the trees and smelling the forest beat being cooped up inside with his assorted inhuman tenants by about a mile. But, today, away from green eyes and blond hair and freckles sprinkled liberally over pale, supple skin, there was space for him to start to freak out.

Sam pressed his back to the nearest tree, squeezing his eyes shut tightly and folding his arms across his chest as if he were afraid of it bursting open. What the hell was he doing? Anxiety clawed its way up into him, acid-edged razor blades. What the hell was he thinking? His breathing had sped up, and he forced himself to take slow, deep gulps of air. Panic attacks had been a big thing for him back in the first couple years after the wendigo incident, when he'd still been living with Ellen, and he didn't need a relapse.

He forced one of his hands away from his chest in order to rake it through the long waves of his hair. His palm was sweating just enough to be sticky, and several dark strands clung to it as he brought it back down. Kissing a demon. Spilling his guts to him, letting his emotions run wild with him. And not just any demon – a Knight of Hell. The last Knight of Hell. Dantalion. He needed, very badly, to do research on that name. He just hadn't had the time.

What he was doing with Dean was stupid. No, insane, actually; letting his guard down around Nadia had been stupid, but making himself this vulnerable, giving Dean this many opportunities to hurt him and this much ammunition to use against him, was just  _crazy_. His mind had finally snapped under all the stress. The line between danger and excitement had blurred away to nothing. He'd gone for so long without sex, without a meaningful relationship, that he would now literally go for anything at all.

The cooler was sitting on the ground next to Sam's boots, the heels of which he was slowly digging into the dirt and the pine needles. He shook himself out of his paralysis and picked it up, walking over to the shed to put it back where it belonged. He'd spent a lot of time in there this morning, flipping through the veritable library that he kept in search of a curse that matched the one on the lighter and instructions on how to deal with it, and worries about Dean hadn't even crossed his mind. Maybe because he'd been keeping busy then.

Reason set in once Sam was moving. Or his delusion reasserted itself, depending on how you looked at it. Did he really have anything to be afraid of? What he had in there, twiddling stolen thumbs and sitting on one of his kitchen chairs, was the soul of a hunter. Blackened and corrupted, yes, but still a hunter. There was enough of the protective instinct that the job bred in most people, enough of that altruism left, for him to have ticked a cursed object out of Sam's hand for no reason other than that it was hurting him.

It was interesting, he thought as he tossed the cooler back up onto the top shelf of a wire unit. He didn't think he'd ever come across a hunter-turned-demon before. Or, if he had, they hadn't told him. And now he was wondering what Dean had sold his soul for, rather than how he was going to use the knowledge that his dad was dead against him. Either most of him really didn't think that the demon was a threat, or he really was crazy.

He pulled his boots off by the door once he got inside, crossing the wooden floor with bare feet. He'd brought two buckets with him from the shed and Dean, standing at the very edge of his Circle, watched him as he leaned against the doorway of his cell. Sam glanced over his shoulder and smiled at him as he started filling the buckets up in the deep sink.

"Miss me?" he asked, a little teasingly.

"Don't think I get lonely, actually," Dean replied, hands slipping into the pockets of his mutilated jeans. "Not anymore. Guess it's just one of the things that got sliced off down in the Pit." He shrugged nonchalantly. "But yeah. I did."

"Did what?" Sam asked, hiding a smile by digging under the sink for his industrial-sized bottle of soap.

"Miss you. You bitch," Dean replied, not a little belligerently. "Making me say it out loud. Jeez. Fuck you, I'm a demon – you didn't meet me at the damn sockhop."

"How old are you?" Sam asked, shaking his head as he picked up the buckets, both full now, and carried them over to Dean's cell. He obligingly stepped back so that he could set them down inside.

"Wouldn't you like to know."

Sam dropped the subject, returning to the kitchenette in order to get a handful of washcloths. His next stop was the bathroom, to get a towel (the towel that Vaughn had used to use…damn it). Then he ducked into his bedroom and picked up a clean pair of jeans, boxers, and a T-shirt. Dean made a face at the clothes when they were handed to him.

"These are gonna be huge on me," he complained, shaking the jeans out and eyeing them critically.

"C'mon," Sam replied, shaking his head. "I'm really not that much bigger than you." He turned around, walking back over to his desk and picking up his phone. There was a soft sound behind him as Dean set the clothes down.

"So," he began, as Sam thumbed his way down the caller ID list, looking for a specific number. "Any chance of you helping me with this bath?"

Sam smirked, glancing over his shoulder and shaking his head again. "I'm too busy."

"Personal project?" Dean swiped the fingertips of one hand unconsciously over the puckered stitches in his stomach (those really needed to come out; it looked like the wound was totally healed) as he went down to unbuckle his jeans.

"Personal project," Sam agreed, pulling the cord out of his laptop and tucking it under his arm before heading to his bedroom. He pressed the "talk" button on the phone as he finally found the number he wanted, right after passing through the doorway. He nudged the door closed with one bare heel.

Sinking down on his bed and setting his laptop aside for the moment, Sam listened to the phone ring twice on the other end before it was picked up. The dull roar and clatter that tended to fill popular bars and restaurants, even at ten in the morning, washed over him, then a woman's clear voice impatiently asked, "Hello?"

"Hi, Ellen," Sam replied, starting to chew on the inside of his lower lip. There was a beat of silence – relative silence, at least – and then Ellen snorted and bluntly asked, "D'you need money or something?"

"What? No!" Sam exclaimed, offended. The conversation had already been derailed and they weren't even two rounds in – great. "Why would I want money?"

"Well, I haven't actually  _talked_  to you in months," Ellen replied, completely unapologetic. "Just read the e-mails that you send to Ash's computer."

"They're  _for_  you, but you don't have a – "

"And your books," Ellen forcefully interrupted. "Actually, we just got your newest one. About banshees and everything? It's in the works. We've already got a waiting list."

"Okay, that's awesome, but it's not why I called," Sam said, not really paying attention. He was so used to the Roadhouse publishing and distributing his books, like they had for almost five years no, that he took it for granted. He knew that. "And I don't want money, either."

"Then what  _do_  you want?" Ellen asked. Sam heard a faint  _clink_ , and imagined her resting one hip against the bar, rattling the glasses. "You wanna know what everybody's saying about you?"

 _"_ _No."_ Hunters were a surly bunch. Most seemed to think he was a spoiled brat, holed up in the woods and letting them do all the work.

"One guy said he sent you a cursed object. You get it?"

Sam flashed back to the lighter. That had to be it – he hadn't received any other cursed objects in a while. "Yeah, I did." Bastard could have given him a little more warning than "cursed lighter." "Tell that guy to go to hell."

"Oh, I see.  _It_  got  _you_." Ellen sounded vaguely amused. "You okay?"

"Yeah," Sam muttered, running a hand through his hair.

"Good." A crackle on the line. "So, what do you want?"

Sam hugged through his nose, annoyed, but it didn't last long. Because that really was the only reason he'd called Ellen. Quietly, he admitted, "Information."

"I knew it." The quality of Ellen's voice changed slightly, like she'd switched the phone to her other ear. "But you've gotta know that anything I could tell you, you could probably figure out on your own in half the time. Either with your books or your computer…or your monsters."

"Not – not for this," Sam assured her, shaking his head even though he knew that she couldn't see him. "I need you to tell me something about a hunter who…disappeared. Or it might've gotten around that he made a deal at a crossroads and his time ran out."

There was a short pause. Sam had expected a barrage of suspicious questions, since he didn't really  _do_  human beings, but, after about two seconds, Ellen just said, "I'm gonna need a name, Sam. There're more hunters out there than you'd think who've sold their souls."

"I've only got the first one," Sam replied. "Dean." He paused for a second in order to worry his lower lip, then tentatively added, "He…might've known you. And Bobby, too."

"Bobby." Ellen sighed. "Sam, the only 'Dean' I can think of who knew Bobby was his son."

Sam's free hand had been resting casually on the comforter of his bed, but now it snapped into a surprised fist, squeezing the fabric and the cotton batting.

"We're…talking about the same Bobby, right?" he asked, a little dubiously. "Bobby Singer? He didn't have any kids. He wasn't even married – I know. My dad took me up to his place all the time when I was little. There weren't any pictures."

"That doesn't surprise me," Ellen replied. She sounded weary. "It was hard on him. It doesn't surprise me that he didn't tell you, either."

"Tell me what?" The question came out harsher and a lot more unhinged than he'd meant it to. Because he hadn't known, he'd never heard anything, and he felt like he should have. His job, after all, was to  _know_. Ellen didn't comment on how he sounded, though. Thankfully.

"He was married," she replied. "A while back, and not for very long. I can't quite recall her name. I know she died giving birth, though. There was some kinda demon involved…some Japanese thing. It was the whole reason that he got into the job."

"And – and the baby," Sam prompted, uncertainly. Everybody started somewhere; he knew that. He himself had started at six months old, carried out of a burning house by his panicked father. He had never known what Bobby's trigger was. The older man had just been so solid, so knowledgeable about everything related to hunting, that Sam had sort of unconsciously assumed that he'd just always done it.

"Yeah. That was Dean," Ellen confirmed. Sam automatically imagined her nodding. "He was a lot like you, from what I understand. Raised in it, I mean. He was good at it – very good. Had a knack for the lore. And for pretty much anything with an engine; Bobby was real proud of that, I remember."

"And what happened to him?" Sam reached for his laptop now, flipping it open and pulling up a new tab in his browser. Ellen sighed heavily.

"He's gone," she said. "Just up and disappeared. A lot like Bobby, actually." She paused. "He was really excited about something before he went. He was close to figuring it out, he said. But I don't have any idea what it was."

"Did he make a deal?" Sam asked. "Maybe for information?"

"If he did, I never heard about it," Ellen replied. "Why're you so hung up on the deal, anyway, Sam? D'you have a crossroads demon up there or something?"

"Uh, no. No. Not anymore." Sam rubbed at his face. "It doesn't matter. He lowered his hand, staring at the blinking cursor in the search bar on the screen of his laptop. "Did he have any brothers?"

"No. Of course not," Ellen replied.

"What about…cousins?" Sam continued. "Uncles, maybe?"

"As far as I know, Bobby was his only family. And vice-versa." Ellen momentarily took the phone away from her mouth with a slight crackle, and Sam heard muffled yelling. He couldn't make out any individual words. He waited until she returned with an exasperated, "Sorry," to continue.

"Kids?" he asked, though he didn't have much hope.

Ellen snorted. "Well, it's definitely  _possible_. I never caught wind of any kids, but, like I said, he was a good hunter…and he never left a town without taking advantage of the locals' gratitude."

 _"_ _Oh."_  Sam cleared his throat, immediately understanding. "So…okay." He glanced, involuntarily, in the direction of Dean's cell, an embarrassed flush creeping up his cheeks. "He was  _that_  kind of hunter, huh?"

"You could say that," Ellen said dryly. "I'm glad Jo wasn't around for most of the time he was here, to tell you the truth. Not to speak ill of the dead, of course." Sam bit his tongue to keep himself from blurting out his theory. His awful, impossible, world-shaking theory. "In fact, I'm glad that we hadn't found Ash yet, either."

"What year did he disappear, Ellen?" Sam asked. His hand flew over the keyboard of his laptop, and a few strokes brought up a national database that he'd used on a few separate occasions. Mostly while dealing with ghosts.

"Eighty-seven," Ellen replied. "So before you and John knew Bobby."

"Right. Bobby." Sam opened a new tab and went to a second database. "Do you know if he filed a missing person's report?"

"I'd be shocked if he didn't," Ellen answered. "He would've done anything to find that boy – though there're probably still a couple open warrants for Dean out there, too. I know he got arrested a few times, and indicted a few more."

"Yeah. That was what I was thinking, too." 1987. Dean Singer. Sam keyed it into the first database before the second. A single report came up, and Sam swore.

He couldn't help it. He'd been about to ask Ellen if she'd known any close friends Dean might have had, or lovers, maybe, but he blurted that out instead as he stared at the picture attached to the file. The man in it was younger than Sam himself, maybe a shade under twenty-one, and the quality was poor. It was probably an old picture. The hair was longer, the freckles more numerous, and there was an easiness to the green eyes and full mouth that must have faded away in the next six or seven years. But there was no mistaking that he was holding this guy out in his demon cell.

"Oh,  _shit_ ," Sam said. He flicked over to the next database, accessed arrest records and warrants. "Shit, shit,  _shit_." Mug shots, photos released to the press – Dean Singer was a tall, pale dirty-blonde with a model's pout, powerfully built and bow-legged.

And so was Knight Dantalion.

Sam clicked out of the browser, closing the window on a close-up of a battered Dean, one eye blackened and his cheek split open in four parallel slashes, glaring at the camera. He set the laptop aside and covered his face with one hand. His throat stung with bile, but he forced himself not to vomit. Not to give into that kind of weakness, even though nobody could see him right now.

"Sam?" Ellen demanded. She'd never been one to reprimand him (or even Jo, who was actually her kid) for swearing, but even she sounded a little taken aback by his profanity. "What the hell's going on?"

"I really screwed up," Sam replied, voice tight and angry. Not at Ellen – of course not. At himself.

Before she could say anything, he hung up, tossed the phone onto his bed, and forced himself to his feet. He lowered to his knees, forcing himself to go slowly, not to rush. If he got hurt, he'd regret it.

Pulling out the shotgun that he'd loaded with salt rounds, cleaned and reloaded after the demon raid, he got back up, and left his bedroom. Heading to Dantalion's cell.


	16. Chapter Sixteen

_I had a dream last night. It was about Barry, in the beginning, before it switched over to Kara. I didn't keep journals back then. I only started a few years ago, because, of course, that psychiatrist that Ellen dragged me to said it might help, and she hammered the habit into me. She was a Nazi about stuff that the psychologist said might help. In case I ever get hit on the head hard enough to cause actual brain damage and I need to read this to get my memories back, Barry was the first person I ever kissed, and Kara was the first person I ever slept with. And the last. The only. I don't think it matters if I admit it here; no one's ever going to see it but me._

_Somebody had a hunt at that school about a year ago. The school that I went to when I was fourteen, the one that I met Barry at. It was a ghost hunt. They thought that it was him at first, because he'd killed himself in the school. It sounded like he was bullied to death, from what they told me. They dug up his grave and burned his bones, and I felt like I should have been there. I still feel like that, actually. Because it might have been my fault. They sat us together, and I left, but he had to stay there with all of them._

_But that doesn't really have anything to do with the dream. Barry was here, in my cabin, exactly how he was the last time I saw him. He kept walking around the whole cabin, touching everything. He left a black handprint on everything he touched. The fridge, my bed, the back door. He wouldn't talk to me no matter how many times I called out to him. And then he was just gone. The handprints started growing, spreading until there wasn't anything left except the blackness, and I couldn't move to stop it. I started falling, very slowly, and Kara was suddenly there, and she grabbed onto my hand. She was naked. Had a sheet wrapped around her. Again, like the last time I saw her._

_She kept me from falling, for a while. But then she sort of faded away, too, and then I was alone. I guess she got tired of holding me up._

-  _Personal journal of Sam Winchester_

* * *

Sam's leg had an infuriating habit of playing dead when he was really, really upset. Like he was now, anger and what he didn't want to believe was betrayal boiling in his stomach and his pulse pounding in his skull. He dragged his leg resentfully behind him as he left his room and crossed the floor, shotgun cradled at the ready in his arms. He gritted his teeth and felt his eyes burn as he came to a stop in front of the demon cell and let his cramping leg dangle uselessly.

There was no way Dantalion could have missed him coming up, since his footsteps weren't exactly quiet even when his bad leg was functioning at full capacity. But he had his back to him anyway, pretending that he didn't even know he was there. Sam adjusted his grip on the wooden stock of the gun. And tried really, really hard not to get distracted.

The gate was still, stupidly, open, and so Sam's view of the demon was unobstructed except for by his own shadow. Dantalion had stripped off his ruined jeans and whatever underwear he'd had on, his boots and his socks, leaving himself completely naked. Everything but the boots had been carelessly tossed out of the cell. Sam had been seeing him shirtless for over a week, but his bottom half was new. Shallow dimples at the very base of his back, overshadowed by ridges of muscle. Firm buttocks. Strong, sturdy legs that bowed out, just slightly. And, of course, it was all dusted lightly with freckles.

He was washing himself. His upper back glistened wetly, a few soap bubbles stubbornly hanging on. As Sam watched, he bent down to wet the rag again, showing him in the process just how well-endowed he was. After straightening back up, he wiped along his arm. The movement was slow, languid. When he reached his wrist, stopping at the severed handcuff dangling from it, he glanced over his shoulder and shot Sam an amused smirk.

"Enjoying the show?" he asked pleasantly. Sam felt his face twitch with something like disgust.

"Dean Singer," he replied quietly, and let that be his only response.

The demon looked like Sam had hit him in the mouth with no warning besides a warm greeting. For a few seconds, at least. Then the sucker punch shock started to fade, and he sighed through his nose as he took the wet cloth to his chest. He looked down at himself in concentration, avoiding Sam's eyes. Which Sam didn't fail to notice. Evenly, he said, "Haven't heard that name in a long time."

"Yeah, I bet you haven't," Sam replied, voice shaking a little with the fury, with the forbidden pain, that he was struggling so hard to bite back right now. "It's been thirty years. Exactly. When did he go quiet? Or is he strong enough to still be screaming somewhere in there?"

The shocked look was back, to a much lesser extent. There was confusion in there, too. "Who's screaming?"

"Dean – " Barefoot, Sam kicked the gate closed. It didn't lock, of course, but it did clang impressively, making Dantalion flinch just a little. In the same movement, he swung the shotgun up and aimed both barrels at the Knight's exposed chest. " – Singer!" Maybe he should have left the gate open. He didn't know what kind of effect shooting through the bars would have; but at least he'd made a statement. "Bobby's son!"

Dantalion blinked at him, expression blank, then reached up and rubbed a wet hand over his face. "Yeah," he said, slowly. He enunciated carefully, like he was talking to a little kid. "That's  _me_." He pointed at his chest.

"That's totally impossible," Sam spat. "I  _saw_  Dean Singer. Pictures. And he didn't have an identical twin. He's your vessel – you're not him." He squeezed the gun. "You just thought it'd be fun to go digging in his memories and try to convince me that you were him. Did you think it'd get you outta there?"

Dantalion dropped the washcloth that he was still holding into one of the buckets with a liquid  _plop_ , then turned and took a few steps across his cell. Sam followed him with the barrels of the gun, warily. He picked up one of the pieces of clothing that had been left for him. The boxers, Sam saw. He stepped into them, pulling them up onto his hips.

"Just so that you won't be distracted by my cock while we're having this conversation," he said with wide eyes, patting his crotch.

"None of that's yours," Sam replied, shaking his head and smiling humorlessly.

"Actually, it is," Dantalion replied, returning to the front and center of Sam's field of vision, standing only a few inches away from the gate. Sam glared. He was too close, but he wouldn't let him know that by telling him to step back. "This is  _my_  body." He put his hands over his pectorals, palms covering his nipples. Indicating himself.

"Even if the original soul's burned away," Sam answered, shifting his weight, "it's still a stolen body."

"Okay, you're not getting it." He shook his head, like he was frustrated. "Listen to me. You moron.  _I'm_  the original soul for this body. I've been back in it for maybe three years now, and it was a real bitch to get it in shape."

"That's – " Sam began angrily, about to repeat that what the demon was saying was impossible, but Dantalion cut him off by slamming a hand into the bars of the gate. A mirror of what Sam had done earlier. He'd come at it sideways, so it just barely drifted open. Sam repressed the urge to shove it closed again. Dean's – Dantalion's hand dangled by his side. Steam rose from the reddened skin of it.

"Just shut your goddamn mouth for five minutes and let me talk," he snapped, upper lip twitching up into an exasperated snarl. "Okay? You need to listen.  _Again._  I get it, you're jumping to conclusions 'cause you're hurt." Something sparked in Sam. Dean cut him off again, before he could even open his mouth this time. "You are so freaking obvious that I probably could've picked up on it even if I wasn't an empath. Hell, I probably could've even if I was  _deaf_  and  _blind._  So…just calm down. Deep breaths. Let me explain."

A muscle in Sam's jaw flexed. He didn't lower the gun. But he did stay silent.

"I'm a Knight of Hell," Dantalion began. Sam choked down a sarcastic, "No shit." From the look the demon gave him, he noticed. "That comes with certain perks. One of 'em's healing. I can't do anything near as major as an angel'd be able to do, and it takes a ton outta me. I've got some pretty serious limits. For example…only dead flesh I can restore is my own." He touched his chest again, briefly. "It took me months to track my body down after they finally let me outta the Pit. I didn't know what hole I'd been chucked in after the hellhounds did their job. And after that, I spent almost a year putting everything back together. Getting it all going again."

"Why?" Sam knew he'd been ordered into silence, but he blurted it out before he could stop himself. He was skeptical, and if there was one thing he hadn't been able to stand for as long as he could remember, it was being lied to. "Why the hell would you waste so much time doing that? There's literally no shortage of people you could possess out there. And if it was a matter of…of _comfort_ , or whatever, then I'd bet you anything that it'd take you about five minutes to find somebody the same size and shape as your real body." Humans just weren't that diverse.

Dantalion smirked, and glanced down at the ground. "Yeah." He looked back up at Sam. "Yeah. That's pretty much exactly what my, uh, handlers told me – Alastair, Lilith, Azazel. They really bitched me out. Constantly. But that was the only thing I really wanted, and I was their only Knight – still am – so they let me work on my body."

"But  _why_?" Sam demanded. Dantalion snorted and shook his head.

"There's a reason they stuck you all the way out in the ass-end of nowhere," he said frankly. "Interrogating monsters instead of people. You'd make a real crappy therapist." He walked over to the clothes again, picking up the jeans this time and examining them critically. Just like he had earlier. "I haven't ever talked about any of this with anybody. I've got a whole lotta guts to spill. The least you could do is be patient."

"I don't even know if this sob story of yours is true," Sam replied, gun still held at the ready. Just in case the demon decided it'd be a good idea to try something while he thought Sam was distracted.

"Y'mean you're…actually willing to listen, now?" Dantalion asked incredulously as he raised a dark blond eyebrow. "You're not just gonna accuse me of lying about everything?"

"You'd better enjoy it while it lasts," Sam replied neutrally. His bad leg was still limp and useless, basically dead, so he couldn't put any weight at all on it. His good leg was starting to burn with the exhaustion of supporting the whole of him. "Tell me why you're hellbent on getting your original body back."

Dantalion glared, apparently not liking the commands, but Sam was the one holding a gun and figured that he could order him around a little if he wanted. Stepping into the jeans, Dantalion answered without looking at Sam.

"Because it's  _mine_ ," he said, like that was the most natural answer in the world. Because I was born in it, and I died in it, and if I'm gonna usher in some new age of Hell on Earth, I'm not gonna do it wearing somebody else's meat." He zipped the fly and maneuvered the button into place, shrugging. "At least, that's the reason that I've been giving the others."

Sam, mouth pressed into a thin and hopefully unreadable line, swallowed. It was his. Just because it was wounded, crippled, falling apart with rot and infection didn't mean that it could just be thrown away and forgotten. It was his. And as long as it was there, it was worth moving Heaven and Earth in an effort to restore it to even a fraction of what it'd been before. Sam understood. He wished that he didn't.

"This is me," Dantalion said, repeating himself from earlier. "This is my body. My name's Dean Robert Singer. Born in South Dakota in nineteen-fifty-six, died from a hellhound attack in nineteen-eighty-seven. Left the Pit as Dantalion the Knight of Hell around six years ago – little sketchy on the dates there, I'm not so good with time anymore."

"Because you don't sleep," Sam said. His arms were tired, so he lowered the shotgun. Even sawed off, those things were surprisingly heavy. "The days just blend together. Especially because Earth time seems off to you, after being in Hell." He rubbed, tiredly, at his face. "A lot of demons have that problem."

Dantalion smirked. "You know more about me and my kind than I do. I'm kinda feeling inferior here."

"You just took him in 'eighty-seven," Sam replied. "The only reason he's still alive, still looks like he's in his late twenties, is you. The smoke inside of him. In his veins." He tipped his chin up, trying to disguise the fact that fatigue was making him wobble in place. "I don't know who you are and I probably never will, but you're not Bobby's son."

"I don't wanna talk about him." Dantalion turned his back on Sam, pacing away into the weak shadow of his cell as he raised his arms to lace his fingers together behind his head.

"D'you feel guilty about taking his only family away from him?" Sam asked. There wasn't any of his earlier rage or hate behind the question. He was in too much pain to keep up emotions that intense.

"No. No. I didn't – " Dantalion dropped his hands and glanced over his shoulder. "I told you. Hurts to remember."

"That's convenient," Sam replied. Dantalion turned around to look at him, and rolled his eyes.

"Go get a chair," he said, waving an irritated hand at him. "Your gimpy leg must be giving you trouble. You look like you're about to fall over."

"'M fine," Sam muttered. One hand was preoccupied with holding the shotgun, dangling down next to his leg, but his free one clenched into a fist.

"Don't be a bitch," the demon replied, walking over and picking up the chair that Sam had put in his cell a few days ago. He carried it back to the gate, setting it down right in front of it and sinking into it. "You're obviously planning on staying here a while and playing Twenty Questions with me. And you know I can't help you if you collapse out there."

Sam felt his face twitch into a scowl, but turned away and limped heavily over to the kitchen area anyway. After grabbing the only chair that was left there, he dragged it slowly back to where he'd been standing before. He was aware that he probably made things a lot harder for himself by refusing to put down the shotgun while he was doing it. Without a free arm, his balance on one leg was completely shot. He tried not to just fall into the chair once he'd finally gotten it situated, but he'd exhausted himself so completely that it was a lost cause.

He did stupid things around this Knight.

"Why d'you say that it hurts to remember?" Sam asked. He didn't wait until he caught his breath to do it, so it came out wheezy and thin.

"Uh, because it  _does_?" Dantalion said, raising his eyebrows and spreading his hands. "I don't know why. Never asked, and I don't spent a whole lot of time thinking about it, y'know?" He pushed himself up in his chair. "I barely remember anything at all from before I died. Names. Dates. I know where I lived, and I know my name, and I know that everybody I ever knew – including me – called my dad 'Bobby.' Not Robert, or Bob – Bobby."

Sam laid the gun across his lap and didn't respond. Dantalion sighed, rubbing a hand over his eyes.

"But you're not gonna believe me no matter what I say, are you?" he asked after a few seconds, dropping his hand and looking up at Sam. "Because you're just gonna think that I'm pulling memories outta the brain of the guy I'm wearing.

"You can do that," Sam replied. "Just so long as the brain's alive. Or at least fresh."

"This is  _my_  brain, though," the demon said, indicating his head with a jerky movement. "I should fucking know. I built it from the brainstem up after it'd rotted outta my skull." He'd started sounding frustrated, stressed. But he stopped, and blew out a deep breath, closing his eyes and shaking his head. Sam thought about getting up and locking the gate, then decided he needed another minute or two to rest.

"Not sure why I'm trying so hard here," Dantalion admitted, opening his eyes and staring levelly at Sam. He sort of wished he'd switch over to the black; it'd be easier to think of him as dangerous and untrustworthy that way. "'S not like it matters." He looked away, staring at nothing now. "You'll be dead the next time they come for me. They won't underestimate you again, after what happened last time. They'll be coming in here expecting Wolverine instead of Professor X."

"Professor X was in a wheelchair," Sam pointed out, speaking past the chill of primal fear that the Knight's words had sent through him. "I've just got a limp."

Dantalion snorted. "Nerd."

" _You_  made the reference," Sam snapped. " _You're_  the nerd."

He had to admit. He hadn't come across many older demons who were this knowledgeable about pop culture. Or any, really.

"Yeah, bite me," Dantalion replied. "Are you ever gonna shoot me for running off with poor, helpless Dean Singer's body without even asking his dad for permission? Or are you done? 'Cause I'd really appreciate it if you'd fuck off and stop bothering me about shit I can't even remember."

Sam stayed where he was for about a second, chewing on the inside of his lower lip, then exhaled loudly through his nose and struggled up out of his chair. He'd leave it where it was for now, until after he'd rested up and felt strong enough to move it back to the kitchen. Before he could even take a single step towards his room, though, Dantalion spoke up again and stopped him. That seemed to be his hobby or something – his timing was impeccable.

"Wait. One last thing before you go." He cleared his throat as Sam turned to glance quizzically at him. "I'm sorry. Again. This time it's for lying to you about my vessel, though. I should've just told you that it was me. I shouldn't've tried to mess with you like that; kinda seemed like it gave you a hard time."

Sam, holding onto the back of the chair for balance, squinted at him. Then he shook his head. "Why do you care about apologizing to me?"

Dantalion hesitated. For less than a second, but Sam still caught it. "I don't know."

Sam's fingers moved minutely on the stock of his shotgun, rubbing at the polished wood. After some thought, he laid it aside, letting it rest against the narrow patch of wall between the demon cell and what used to be Vaughn's room. As he slowly lowered himself back down into the chair, Dantalion folded his arms across his chest and swung one leg over the other.

"I thought I told you to get outta here," he said.

"Yeah," Sam answered. "You're not really in any position to be ordering me around." Spreading his knees, he leaned forward, resting his forearms on his thighs and clasping his hands together. "Tell me what's going on with you."

"What d'you mean, what's going on with me?" the demon asked. Just a little too quickly, in Sam's opinion. "I'm stuck in this nifty little cell you set up. I literally can't do anything."

"Why are you acting like a human being?" Sam clarified.

"I'm not," Dantalion said, a humorless smirk tugging half of his mouth up. "I can't. You know that."

"I thought that," Sam corrected. "But now…" He trailed off, shaking his head and spreading his hands. "You're apologizing. You're fighting hard to make me believe that you are who you say you are. And you were so…" He swallowed, then pushed on. "You were so  _gentle_  with me, while I was in there. Never once tried to hurt me. And I can't think of anything you'd gain by doing that."

"I threatened to kill you," Dantalion pointed out.

"But you didn't mean it," Sam replied. "And you never followed through."

The demon stared at him, expressionless, and didn't provide a reply to that. His chest slowly moved with the breath of his vessel. Sam stared back, unwilling to be the first one to break eye contact. After maybe thirty seconds, Dantalion closed his eyes and sighed through his nose.

"You're just head over heels for me," he stated. Sam straightened up, face settling into an indignant mask, but before he could protest, Dantalion's green eyes opened and he held up a hand. "I already told you that I know. You just can't hide it – you're a mess of emotions. I don't even need to read your feelings, because you can't hide 'em at all. I bet you suck at poker."

Reading emotions through body language, facial expressions, and tone of voice. That was a hunter thing. Sam kept his mouth shut tightly, though – the demon could just be piggybacking skills that Dean had picked up on the job. Or lying.

"I know why you feel the way that you do about me," Dantalion continued. "You're lonely. You've got some hangup about using your monsters to clean the pipes, and that Garth guy obviously isn't giving your sorry ass any action, so I've gotta be the first one who's actually  _touched_  you in years. Kissed you. Held you. Made you feel all special inside." He smirked. "I'm pretty, too, which helps. And maybe some part of you believes that I'm just  _misunderstood,_ and that I'm more human than demon and you  _help_  me." He tipped his chin up. "And you're one of those delicate little flowers who can't have the urge to bone somebody without being completely prepared to spend the rest of your life with them, too. So. You're in love with me." He shrugged.

Sam stared at a spot directly to the left of Dantalion's eyes, jaw working involuntarily. Quietly, he said, "This doesn't have anything to do with you."

"Actually, it's got everything to do with me," the demon replied easily. "Because your stupid, hopelessly misguided puppy love?" He pushed down at the floor with his bare feet, rocking his chair up onto its two back legs. "I should think it's hilarious. I should be using it to get outta this cell. At the very least, it should squick me out. Human feelings. Weakness. I don't like that."

"What're you trying to say here?" Sam asked, shaking his head. He didn't understand. And he was staring to zone out a little, in ten-second intervals, now that the adrenaline rush had fully worn off.

"I get why you feel the way that you do," Dantalion repeated. "But I don't understand why  _I_  feel the way that I do. Probably don't have a hope of figuring it out, either."

There was no way that he was saying what Sam immediately thought he was saying, so he rejected that possibility. "What are you talking about? How do you feel?"

Dantalion lifted his feet, letting the front legs of his chair fall back to the concrete with the full weight of his vessel behind them, creating a loud  _snap_  that nearly made Sam jump.  _"Human."_

Sam licked his lips. "What kind of game are you playing?" He was just about done. He wanted to go lay down.

"I'm not, and I don't expect you to believe me, so I'm not even gonna waste my breath arguing," Dantalion replied. "Since I've started talking to you, I've been feeling stuff I haven't for…Jesus, I don't even know how long. Twenty years, in your time. Stuff I thought I lost in the Pit. Stuff they shoud've peeled out of me." He sucked his lower lip into his mouth, bit it. "Thought it was just some kinda phantom pain. Figured it'd go away if I ignored it and just focused on getting back to the others. But it didn't – it just kept on getting stronger. Keeps getting stronger. And you must be what's causing it."

"You can't seriously expect me to believe this."

"I'm attached to you," the demon said. "I shouldn't be, but I am. I don't think I'm capable of love; definitely not your kinda love. But I'm feeling something for you. I don't wanna hurt you, and I don't want anybody else to hurt you, and I don't want you to leave me or get pissed at me, and I hate it, but it's real." He closed his eyes, taking a deep breath. "My name's Dean Singer. Really is, I promise. And I'm pretty sure that I'm as in love with you as my stunted, torn up, tainted soul is gonna let me be, Sam Winchester."

Sam was quiet for a moment, just focusing on processing. And there was a lot to process, and to judge and to understand and to form opinions about. Then he lowered his face into his hands and rubbed until he could feel a dull pressure in his sinuses. The demon sitting across from him, an unlocked gate between them, stayed quiet the whole time, and when Sam opened his eyes and raised his head, he saw that he'd been watching him.

"Well?" Dantalion, or maybe it really was Dean, asked. He spread his hands and widened his eyes expectantly.

"What?" Sam asked blankly, shaking his head.

"I wanna know what's going on in that giant skull of yours," he replied. "I just about literally bared my soul to you a minute ago. What're you thinking? What's your reaction? I can't read anything from you – it's all jumbled up."

"I don't know." Sam rubbed at his face again, this time reaching up and dragging his hands back over his hair. It left it messy and sticky with sweat, but he barely noticed and didn't' care. "I don't know what I'm thinking. I don't know how I'm supposed to react to this." No one had ever prepared him for something like this. Dantalion (possibly Dean) wasn't the first monster to profess to love him, but he was the first demon. And all the others had either been capable of feeling human emotions or blatantly, obviously lying. This…he didn't know. He just didn't know. He couldn't tell. "You can't be telling the truth. I shouldn't believe you. You're just – you're just manipulating me, because you can tell what I need and you think that giving it to me will make me let you out."

The demon shrugged, tipping his head to the side in a "fair point" kind of way.

"But I  _want_  to believe you," Sam continued quietly. "Which is stupid, and crazy. It goes against everything I've ever been told about handling monsters, and everything I know about demons. I just…" He closed his eyes. "I guess I'm stupid. Or crazy. You're probably gonna kill me, and I don't care. It's really not like I have anything else going for me right now."

"Ain't that the truth," Dantalion agreed. Sam felt a scowl flicker involuntarily across his mouth.

"I hate this," he stated.

"I'm not enjoying it all that much, either," the demon replied. "I thought I'd never have to deal with this kinda thing every again – this flies in the damn face of everything I am. And, look, no offense to you, but you're not really my usual type. Way too…" He tilted his head back and forth, considering, being he settled on, "Committed."

"Least my name's not Dandelion," Sam replied. His mouth seemed to be running on autopilot, which wasn't something that happened to him all that often.

"Dan-tal-yun," the demon immediately corrected, looking offended. "And…seriously. I'm really not all that fond of that name, okay? 'S why I didn't give it to you myself. Just call me Dean. And get over any moral dilemmas you might still have about that, because even if I'm not him –  _which I am_  – then I've been in this body so long that he's gone and I've earned the name."

"You're not…doing a good job of convincing me that you're really Dean Singer," Sam admitted quietly, shaking his head again.

"But you said you believed me," Dean (he guessed it wouldn't hurt anyone if he really did call him that) replied. Sam had actually said that he  _wanted_  to believe him, but he kept his mouth shut about it. "So why don't you come in here, if that's really true…" He raised one hand, palm out, and narrowed his eyes. His forehead furrowed like he was concentrating hard. Sam swallowed reflexively as the gate slowly, silently swung out, its edge barely missing his knees, until it was completely open. "…and prove it to me."

Sam stared, then closed his eyes and sighed softly. Everyone he cared about knew his feelings towards them. He didn't have any other monsters right now that needed to be fed. Whatever peace he could possibly have with a God whose angels he'd shut out of his property had been made. If Dean punched a hole in his chest and dragged his heart out through it, he wouldn't be leaving any loose ends behind. So he opened his eyes again and stood up.

"Of course, if you come in here," Dean said calmly, before Sam could take a step forward, "you're gonna get hurt."

Sam blinked, suddenly riddled with doubt. "But you said you didn't want to – "

"I don't," Dean interrupted. He stood up again, walking over and picking up the T-shirt. He dropped it over his head, and Sam felt an involuntary twinge of disappointment as it fell loose and soft over the bare skin of his chest, obscuring it. "I'd never. Not on purpose. But even though you make me feel human, I'm still a demon, and I can't make any promises."

Sam focused on drawing breath, before swallowing once again. He wasn't afraid. "Okay." He understood. His leg still hurt, but he walked forward, forcing himself not to hesitate for even a second before stepping over the threshold and into the cell.

Dean was still standing off to the side where he'd picked up the T-shirt, hands in the pockets of his jeans. He watched Sam, blinking slowly as he turned to look at him, just inside the gate. He closed the distance between the two of them with a couple steps, then pulled Sam against himself. Sam stiffened at first when he wrapped his arms around him, hugging him, but it felt so nice that he couldn't help but relax after a couple seconds.

"Hey, look at that," Dean said, voice low and husky with what sounded like affection. "We just made it through our first fight."

Sam snorted softly, but made no move to pull away. "We're not a couple."

"We're not a normal couple," Dean corrected. "I mean, like – it sounds like my dad really took a shine to you after you met him. We're practically brothers."

"Stop making it weird," Sam commanded. He stepped back, but Dean's arms stayed loosely around his waist. Which he sort of liked. "More weird than it already is, I mean." It couldn't get much stranger, in his opinion, than a bi-species gay couple, one half of which was contained in a cell and the other half of which had a permanent severe limp.

Dean chuckled softly, then leaned forward to peck hesitantly at Sam's lips. When he didn't protest, or pull away, he was tugged into a much deeper kiss. One that practically made him melt into a puddle on the concrete floor. There was much warmth there, so much passion – he really didn't think that anybody, even a demon, could fake that. He could do without the taste of sulfur (the blood was gone – Dean must have rinsed his mouth out), but it was faint, and he'd certainly tasted much worse in his time. Dean raised his hands to Sam's hair and took big handfuls of it, stroking the curls that lapped over his fingers with his callused thumbs. Sam had his arms around his waist. He tilted his head, giving him a better angle, and an extremely embarrassing moan rolled out of him when Dean slipped his tongue into his mouth.

"Oh, my god, you're a good kisser," Sam gasped out when they broke for air. Dean was stroking through the hair around his face, movements minute and soft.

"You're enthusiastic, at least," Dean replied. He wasn't even out of breath. "Guessing you haven't had much practice."

"Well, it's not like I'm a virgin," Sam defended himself. "I just…haven't been with as many people as you have, apparently."

Dean grinned. "I'd bet my soul on that, but obviously, I already sold it."

Sam thought about asking him if he remembered what he'd sold his soul for. The standard period of time between the making of a deal and it coming due was ten years, so Dean had called up a crossroads demon when he was…eighteen. That seemed pretty young, but Sam had once talked to one who claimed to have closed deals with victims as young as nine. But he decided against pressing for that information when Dean leaned in again and roped him into a long series of soft, wet kisses. Once he was apparently done, he rested his forehead against Sam's, eyes closed. Sam let him, just enjoying the feeling of being so close.

"You don't have anything to prove to me," Dean told him softly. Sam closed his eyes. "I know what you can feel, with that bright, shiny soul of yours. And I know that I'm safe with you and your bleeding hear. Not that you could really hurt me all that bad, even if you were trying." He shrugged a little. Sam felt the motion more than he saw it. "But it's different for me."

"I'm not afraid of you," Sam assured in a murmur.

"You used to be, though. And you had good reason," Dean said. "I get it, things have changed. I stopped acting like such a douche. The wraith kid died." Sam just barely flinched. He guessed that Dean wouldn't have been able to pick up on it if they weren't as close as they were. "…which is still really tearing you up, obviously. Maybe that's why you don't seem to care that I could hurt you."

"I  _care_ ," Sam argued. "I just don't think you will."

"You sure about that?" Dean asked.

"Yes."

"Okay."

Then he broke Sam's wrist.

Well, not quite. But he came damn close to it. He was suddenly a step away from Sam, and his hands had flashed down from his hair to his forearm and his palm. He was holding them at a strange angle, so that one quick jerk would snap the bones where they narrowed and were at their most fragile. And it was his right hand. Of course.

Sam stared at Dean's hands, mouth suddenly as dry as the soft pine litter outside, and snatched his arm instinctively back against his chest when he let go. It tingled painfully with the shock of what could have happened.

"That's how fast I could do it," Dean told him quietly. "Imagine if that'd been your neck."

"Uh huh," Sam managed, struggling not to start shaking. It was a purely physiological reaction.

"Do you care now?" Dean pressed, and his eyes switched to black with a flickering sound.

"Uh huh," Sam replied. He had no idea what Dean was trying to do. Maybe he should have just gone back to his room and laid down. Or called Ellen back – she was probably worried about him, after he'd hung up and run off.

"Then let me show you," Dean responded, reaching slowly for Sam's arm again, "that I'm gonna do my best to take care of you."

Sam reluctantly let Dean take his hand, only relaxing when it became clear that he wasn't going to try and break it again. Dean's touch was light, as if he were trying not to frighten him. He led him over to the chair, pushing him down gently into it. Sam looked up at him as he straddled his thighs, eyes fading back to normal.

"Are you gonna give me a lap dance to apologize for scaring me half to death?" Sam asked, raising his eyebrows.

Dean winced. "Didn't mean to scare you that bad," he said apologetically. Sam guessed he'd used his daily supply of actual "I'm sorry"s up already. "But, no. I don't dance. I've got something else in mind."

Sam accepted his kiss when he leaned in, fully aware that he was getting intimate with a possibly unstable and definitely violent demon. And…yeah. All right. He cared about that. He didn't feel completely safe. But he supposed that that was just the price he was willing to pay in order to feel loved.

Dean took it slow this time, building up to something instead of just greeting him. Sam felt all of the tension in his body slowly draining away as time passed. Which made no sense, but somehow, the longer he spent with Dean, the more comfortable he was around him. Plus, he was a  _really_  good kisser, and as Sam's pulse thundered in his groin and Dean's soft pink lips slowly guided his mouth open, he reflected that that probably went a long way towards relieving stress, too.

The taste of sulfur, tangy and harsh. Whatever. All that mattered was the kiss itself. He was just getting into it, figuring out exactly how Dean wanted him to respond, when the demon's pillow-soft lips left his. Sam's eyes fluttered open in confusion, then he felt a kiss on the tip of his lightly-stubbled chin. Then other on his Adam's apple, then another on his pulse point.

"You're gorgeous, y'know," Dean said softly, breath ghosting over the skin of Sam's throat. "I mean, in a nerdy, hippy, Sasquatch hermit kinda way."

Sam snorted. "How sweet."

He felt Dean grin against him. "C'mon. Actions speak louder than words, don't they?"

The demon kept going after that, working his way slowly down Sam's body, kissing him even through the fabric. Which wasn't all that much of a turn-on, but Sam was enjoying it anyway. At least until Dean slipped off of his lap and knelt between his legs, kissing his navel through the thin fabric of the cotton T-shirt that he was wearing.

"Uh," Sam began, shifting in his seat.

"What?" Dean asked, sitting back on his heels and looking up at him.

"I…know what you're doing now," Sam said, clearing his throat. Dean cocked his head and raised an eyebrow.

"And you  _stopped_  me?" he asked with an incredulous grin.

"Yeah. I just…" Sam shook his head, licking his lips and glancing up at the red devil's trap on the ceiling. "Wanted to…make sure that you really wanna do that. Put me in your mouth, I mean."

Dean licked his lips, wetting them. "You've never had anybody blow you before, have you?" he asked.

"Uh, yeah, I have," Sam replied, a note of challenge creeping into his voice as he spoke. Once. In the bathroom of a bar. While his dad had been drinking at one of the tables and catching up with a few local hunting buddies. Sam had told the guy, maybe about a year older than him, that they had to be fast. He ended up clipping him with his teeth and puking before Sam came. Which he chose to believe had more to do with him being drunk than the actual blowjob – the bar was too seedy to card. "I'm just worried about  _you_  biting it off."

Dean laughed, grinning up at Sam as he put his hands on his thighs. "Yeah, that's probably a legitimate concern, there." He patted one of his legs. "I've had a lot of practice, and I don't intend to hurt you. This is me showing you that you really can trust me." He lowered his eyelids, and his voice took on a husky, sultry quality. "And that I'm an impassioned and considerate lover."

"Impassioned," Sam repeated.

"You bet your ass." Dean reached up and deftly slipped the button of Sam's jeans back through its denim eye. His gaze flicked back up to Sam when he was finished. "So. You okay with this?"

Sam blew out a heavy breath, leaning back in his chair, before saying, "I guess. Just so long as you stop when I tell you to stop."

" _If_  you tell me to stop," Dean corrected. "I get the feeling that you're not gonna want me to."

"Yeah. We'll see," Sam responded. He had no doubt that Dean was experienced with this kind of thing. He just still wasn't sure that he trusted him with his cock.

Dean tugged the zipper of Sam's jeans down without responding, rolling the waistband of his boxers in the same direction once he'd finished with it. Sam gasped softly as he spilled out into the cool, dry air, already swollen with arousal and half erect. Dean made an impressed noise, supporting Sam in the palm of his hand.

"Looks like you're already raring to go," he said approvingly. "And…guess you're big everywhere, aren't you?"

"C'mon," Sam panted. Dean patted his thigh again with his free hand, then dipped his head. Sam let his own fall back, eyes fluttering closed and another quiet gasp popping out of him when he felt Dean's breath on himself. He was overly sensitive, because it'd been too long, and the tiniest sensation sent lightning bolts up to his brain. There was no way that he'd be able to focus on Dean and what he was doing while this was going on – he'd be completely lost in the pleasure.

Dean's lips had somehow come to rest against the head of his cock. The movement had been so slow, and his lips themselves so soft, that he hadn't felt it at all. His mouth opened, and Sam was drawn into the deep, wet warmth of it. He cried out a little, and was sure that he felt Dean just barely shake his head around him. Probably thinking about how pathetic he was. Which was fine – he  _was_ pretty pathetic, when he thought about it. But none of that mattered right now, with how good this felt.

Dean took him to the root, all of a sudden, and Sam's heart rate doubled. He fought not to jump in his seat and turned his attention to breathing, to feeling. Dean's mouth moved, and soft, obscene slurping noises came from Sam's groin. His cock jumped in the demon's mouth. He laughed softly around it, giving Sam a brief, extremely pleasurable vibration, then began to bob his head. Very slowly at first, and he didn't go far, but he quickly built up both speed and distance, until he was jerking his mouth all the way back to the very tip of Sam's cock before rocketing down to the base again. Sam moaned in time with the rapid movements.

Dean hollowed his cheeks, sucking as he went. His tongue flexed and rolled against the ridged underside of Sam's dick, even though there couldn't be all that much room in his mouth. He hummed, cheeks vibrating against him. His hand came up and cupped Sam's balls, fondling and rolling them in their sac, occasionally giving a gentle tug. He might as well have been yanking on the ripcord for an engine. Sam could feel himself revving up to an orgasm after an embarrassingly short amount of time. But before he could hit climax, Dean pulled his mouth off of him.

"Uhh." Sam grunted, opening his eyes and blinking up at the devil's trap. Lifting his head, he stared down at Dean, confused and (even though he knew he shouldn't be) a little angry. It took a second to get his tongue working, and when he spoke, his voice came out husky and deep. "What's wrong?"

Dean's face was still pretty close to Sam's erection (full-blown now), and when Sam looked down, a bolt of pleasure shot through the pit of his stomach as he noticed a thin rope of saliva connecting Dean's lower lip to the flushed tip of his cock. It broke when Dean rocked back onto his heels again and looked up at him. His green eyes were glassy and half-lidded, probably from arousal, judging by the large bulge that Sam could see in his jeans. His lips were puffier than usual, slick and swollen with friction. And he wasn't out of breath, of course.

"Haven't given head in a long time," he explained. His voice sounded a lot like Sam's. "Just need a minute, all right?"

"All right," Sam agreed softly. He pushed himself up in his chair, straightening. Precome welled at the end of his throbbing cock. "Are…" He leaned forward, extending a hand, and gingerly touched Dean's hair. It wasn't nearly as clean as the rest of him after his sponge bath, but Sam could still feel how soft it was, and how thick. And how warm, since it was so close to his skull. He wasn't expecting him to lean into it, but he didn't. Pretty hard, too. "…you okay?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I'm fine." Dean smirked, shaking his head – though he didn't take it away from Sam's hand. "I swear to god –  _you_ , man. Jesus. If somebody pulled off  _me_  halfway through a blowjob, I'd rip their head off. And you're asking if I'm all right."

"Well, if you're – if you need to stop, I understand," Sam said with a shrug, trying very hard to ignore the fact that his wet cock was getting cold. "Uh. Please don't throw up on me."

"Somebody  _threw up_  on you before?" Dean asked, raising his eyebrows. "Jeez. No wonder you were being so weird about having me suck you off earlier." He shook his head. "Nah, you don't have to worry about that with me. Gag reflex doesn't work anymore." He opened his mouth until Sam could see his uvula. "I can't really choke to death, so I didn't see the point in hooking it back up when I took care of everything else."

"Great," Sam said, less than enthusiastically. Dean snorted.

"Y'know, Sam, most guys would be  _excited_  to hear that I don't have a gag reflex," he pointed out. Sam shrugged. "Okay. I think I'm good to go. Better get my mouth back on your cock before it freezes off, right?" He winked up at Sam.

"Just so long as you're sure," Sam replied, taking his head off of Dean's head. He didn't get very far, though, before Dean took hold of his wrist and pressed his palm back into place against his brush cut.

"Yeah, I'm sure," Dean assured, nodding underneath his hand. He let go of him after a couple seconds, but didn't say anything about it. Sam decided that he probably didn't need to bring it up right now. "Lemme take you."

Sam's hand tightened incrementally in Dean's hair as he leaned forward again, taking him back into his mouth as quickly and deeply as if he'd never pulled off to begin with. Sam jumped, but Dean must have been expecting that, because he managed not to hit him with his teeth. His hands were back on his thighs, kneading and rolling as he bobbed his head like the forepaws of a purring cat. Sam found himself stroking his hair, practically petting him, as he started to deepthroat him.

"'M gonna – Dean, I can't – " Sam panted, almost whining it out as he started to build again. Dean patted his thigh, not taking his mouth away, and gave him a thumb's-up.

Sam cried out, not even trying to hold it back. Dean didn't seem to mind, and there was really no way that he could keep himself from coming. It was too powerful, it felt too good, as Dean began to suck harder as if trying to coax his orgasm out of him. The fingernails of the hand that he had in Dean's hair raked furrows over his scalp. He hoped, in the very back of his mind, that he wasn't hurting him, but mostly, he was focused on the waves of pleasure ripping through him like honeyed razors.

He wasn't sure when he actually shot his load, but he did know that Dean swallowed every drop. Sucked him dry, even. And Sam came harder than he had in probably seven years. He took care of himself every once in a while, of course. It wasn't like he hadn't had an orgasm since Kara. But another person, a real mouth or entrance, just couldn't be beat by a warm hand and a squirt of lube. Amazing what he thought about while coming. But he also had an image in his head of what Dean had looked like when he pulled off of his cock and looked up at him, open mouth wet and eyes hazy from the pleasure and effort of giving a blowjob.

His eyes were closed when he came down, chest jerking with shallow pants, and he wondered if, maybe, he hadn't blacked out for a couple of seconds. It wasn't like he'd know, since he'd had his eyes shut tightly the entire time. A soft moan rolled out of him in response to the aftershocks he was still drifting on. He was slumped down in his chair, he realized. The only thing that had stopped him from bonelessly sliding out of it seemed to be a hand that was braced firmly on his thigh.

Sam forced his eyes open, raising his head, as the other hand began to wipe him off with something soft. He saw Dean drying his junk off with a handful of the T-shirt that he was wearing, exposing a slice of washboard stomach. And the near-purple head of his cock, where it was tucked into the waistband of his boxers.

"'S my shirt," Sam pointed out. Dean looked up at him, shrugged, then turned his attention back to his work.

"There's no come," he replied, and Sam could swear that he was grinning when he added, "Nah, I took care of that. It's just spit. Not gonna ruin your shirt."

"You don't really have to do that," Sam replied, shaking his head slowly. Tiredly. He hadn't even done anything but sit in the chair and let Dean go to town on him, but it had somehow taken quite a bit out of him.

"Maybe. But I want to." Dean let go of his T-shirt, letting it fall as he tucked Sam, almost completely softened, back into his boxers. Sam closed his eyes as he felt him zip him up and fumble his button back into place. "I told you…" He pushed himself to his feet with a grunt of exertion. "…that I was gonna take care of you. I told you that I'd prove that I care about you."

"You just gave me a blowjob." Sam reached for Dean's hands, almost on reflex. He let him take them.

" _And_  cleaned you up afterwards," Dean complained, nudging Sam's knees together with his own so that he could sit down on his lap. Close to him, so close that he could feel the unmistakably living warmth of him, or his vessel, and feel his erection pressing against his stomach. "You'd have to pay extra for that if I were a hooker."

"Got a lot of experience with hookers?" Sam asked with a grin, opening his eyes just in time to see Dean roll his own.

"Real smart." He leaned in about an inch, which was really all the distance he needed to press a kiss to Sam's mouth. Sam tasted himself on Dean's tongue. It wasn't a flavor he was familiar with, but it was thrilling nonetheless. "How're you feeling?" he whispered, after pulling away to let Sam breathe.

"Great," Sam answered honestly, speaking in a soft voice. "Better than I have in a long time, actually."

"Wonderful." Dean pulled him into another kiss, and didn't protest when Sam reached tentatively for the button of his jeans.


	17. Chapter Seventeen

_Let me just come out and say it right here for future reference: I don't like torture. I guess it's better to be the one performing it than the one receiving it, in a lot of ways, but I'm not really fond of being on either end. I know that there are quite a few hunters out there who like taking a set of tools to monsters who have hurt people, punishing them for what they've done and maybe even getting in a little payback for everything that's happened to them personally since they got into the job. And I believe that's wrong, but I understand it, because we're all human and we're all prone to dangerous, petty things like that. Those hunters are the whole reason that I'm not posting this on the website. I don't want to offend anybody, because there are a lot of people out there who know where I live, and they're not exactly a rational bunch._

_Back on track. I don't like torturing anything, and I think that I might have talked about this at least a little before. I can handle blood or whatever it is that dribbles out when they get cut, but I don't like it. The screams and sobs and pleas bother me, wake me up in the middle of the night and follow me for months after whatever made those noises is long dead or gone. And trust me, I realize how whiny that sounds. Me bitching about having nightmares because I peeled thirty percent of a rugaru's skin off. I'm not the one that got hurt. But that doesn't change the fact that I hate it._

_As much as I despise it, though, I legitimately have to do it sometimes. I really wish that I could say that torture never works, but honestly, that's not true. It gets results, and when you're crunched for time, it can be the only option left to you. When you're desperate. When you know for a fact that psychological manipulation and other, non-violent methods are never going to work on whatever you're interrogating._

_Torture is unreliable when performed on human beings. But monsters and demons are different, and I just have to do it sometimes._

-  _Personal journal of Sam Winchester_

* * *

"Oh my god," Dean said bluntly as Sam dropped the stack of books that he'd been carrying onto the seat of his chair.

"Yeah, that's about a third of 'em," Sam told him, nodding as he rested a hand on top of the stack.

"Jesus Christ," Dean said. "A  _third_? You've gotta be kidding me. There's at least a dozen books there."

"Well, y'know." Sam shrugged, trying not to grin, as he lowered himself into the other chair that he'd dragged into the cell. His kitchen table was now devoid of chairs, but he'd eaten breakfast in here anyway, so it didn't really matter. "I  _have_  been at it for about five years now."

"Yeah, but this is insane," Dean said, shaking his head. " _You're_  insane, man." He walked over to the pile of books and picked one up, examining it. He flipped it back and forth between his hands, so that he could see both covers. "Is this self-published?"

"Well, technically, Ash publishes them," Sam replied. When Dean glanced at him, he explained. "Computer geek down at the Roadhouse. He makes them into actual books after I send the documents to him, and then Ellen distributes them for two dollars apiece. Mostly to people who either can't access my website or don't want to, because I put all of the information in my books up there, too."

"Your website," Dean repeated, shaking his head as he put the book back down. "I guess I get the books, but I can't believe you've got a website. Literally anybody could stumble on that and see all the information.

"Yeah, that happens pretty often," Sam replied. "I've got a cult following of maybe five hundred people, all across the States. Mostly high school students. They think it's the coolest thing since /x/."

"Since ex?"

1987\. Dean had died in 1987, when there hadn't even been such a thing as the internet. And, yeah, he'd been back on Earth for a few years now, but those had been full of repairing his body and how to use the newfound powers that were guaranteed him as a Knight and herding demons around. Probably not playing on the computer and catching up on all the latest stuff.

"They think it's fake," he said, rather than explaining. "I don't have anything to worry about."

"Well, if you're sure. Still seems like a bad idea to me." Dean folded his arms, looking down at the stack of books that sat on his chair. "These look like car manuals."

Sam glanced over at them. Plain white cover, plain white back, plain white spin, standard black text for the title and author. "Didn't wanna waste a lot of money on fancy designs." Or sensationalize hunting. Keeping the books simple and efficient just seemed better for everybody.

"What's the first one you wrote?" Dean asked, beginning to look through the stack. "Are there dates on these?"

"I don't think so." Sam stood up and ran the tip of one index finger down the spines, until he came to one that was fairly close to the bottom. "Here it is." He pulled it free with a deft movement of his wrist, only managing not to topple the whole pile because of his years of practice. He handed it to Dean. "It's really not that good. My writing's gotten a lot better since then."

"'Vampires, Ghouls, and Other Fanged Predators,'" Dean read off. "'Sam Winchester.' Nice title, Sam."

"Yeah, you come up with a better one," Sam replied, shoving the demon's shoulder. "You can go ahead and read those, if you want. I've gotta go get a bag of ice outta the freezer."

"Isn't that the same freezer that you keep all of your frozen brains and stuff in?" Dean asked, glancing up from the book and raising an eyebrow.

"Uh…yeah?" Sam looked at him over his shoulder as he stepped out of the cell. He had started feeling a little guilty leaving, since Dean couldn't and yet had to watch him do it every time. "What about it?"

"Nothing…nothing." Dean shook his head, looking back down at the book. "Not like I've gotta eat anything that comes out of it."

Sam just snorted, walking over to the back door and stepping into the boots there with his bare feet. It wasn't like any of his food touched any of the monster food. Most of which had been intended for Vaughn and Nadia, but…he was sure that he'd get something else that ate blood and brains. Someday. Eventually.

He stepped outside, pushing the door closed behind him, then walked out across the wild area that technically served as his back yard. The day was cloudy, and from the looks of the sky, it was going to rain later. The cabin was sealed tightly (which Sam had made sure of in his first year, getting the place fit for a person – especially a disabled person – to live in), which he was glad of. He could just spend the rest of the day with Dean, listening to the rain hit the roof. Reading. After the past couple of weeks he'd had, so relaxing a day sounded absolutely priceless. Even if it would be his own books that they were reading.

Into the shed. Prop up the lid of the big chest freezer. Haul out a bag of ice and sling it over his shoulder, because it was too cold to carry in his bare forearms. He'd been through the routine a million times before and could do it without thinking, which was why he was absentmindedly looking out the window while he did it. Which, in turn, was why he saw a figure, too far away for him to be able to make out any details except that it was human, walking through the trees near the very edge of his property.

Sam immediately dumped the bag of ice back into the freezer and got away from the window. It was entirely possible that it was just a hiker; he got a lot of them up here. At least once a year, someone knocked on his door and asked for directions or water or something like that. But considering that he had a damn Knight of Hell locked up in his room, one whose people had already tried to reclaim him once, he wasn't about to take any chances.

He grabbed a backpack leaning against one of the shelving units, a dark, lightweight one that held a kit he'd thrown together a couple of years ago. Once he'd picked it up and gotten both straps over his shoulders, he headed for the door. Outside, he hesitated, wondering if he should tell Dean what was going on before he took off. He decided against it after about a second, turning and limp-sprinting into the forest. He couldn't afford to waste the time and he could let Dean know when he got back. It was like the demon could come out and help him if he didn't come back after a while.

Sam stood at six-foot-four and weighed just over two hundred pounds. And only one of his legs worked right. He knew better than to try and be quiet as he moved over twigs and rocks and pine litter. What he focused on instead was moving fast and not being seen, keeping as many trees as possible between himself and the person he was after. He ducked underneath low-hanging branches, pressed close to the chunky bark that covered the trunks of the trees, and tried to keep his leg from dumping him into the dirt. The paralysis that yesterday's meltdown had caused was over, thankfully, but putting it through too much could bring it right back.

It only took him about five minutes to reach his target. Despite the noise he had made, she (because he could definitely tell that it was a she now) seemed oblivious, which wasn't surprising. People who hadn't lived out in the forest for ages like Sam had tended to have a tough time distinguishing between normal sounds and ones that had been created by another person.

Sam noticed other details besides the apparent obliviousness in the first second that the woman was in his line of sight. Things that made him realize that something weird was definitely going on, and he wasn't just dealing with some random hiker. For one, she definitely wasn't wearing hiking clothes. She was a fit woman, average height, looked like she definitely could have spent a day or two out on the trails if she felt like it, but she wasn't dressed to do so, in a pantsuit cut from navy blue silk. It was in remarkably good shape, if she'd come all the way up here in it: no rips or tears at all that he could see. The top half of her straw-colored hair had been gathered into a very loose tail and secured with a clip, leaving a shimmering curtain, unbound, to sway beneath it every time she moved. That hairstyle would snag like hell on twigs and needles.

And her feet, planted firmly shoulder-width apart on the soft layer of mulch that covered the forest floor, were strapped into a pair of sensible leather pumps.

So, yeah. Definitely not hiking.

She was standing with her fists on her hips, looking away from Sam. Towards his cabin, actually, if he hadn't gotten himself completely lost. He doubted she could see it through the trees, no matter what she was, but it was still a little unnerving that she seemed to know the exact direction.

He was pressed to a tree, peering through a screen of branches and needles. Well-concealed. But some instinct still made him duck out of sight when the woman turned her head to where she could possibly see him. He swallowed as he laid his cheek against the bark of the tree, because he hadn't moved quite fast enough to avoid noticing her eyes. Her black, featureless eyes.

Her silk suit rustled as she turned away from him, heels crunching smartly over the pine litter, and he waited until he was sure that she was heading in the opposite direction to move. His boots made marginally more sound than her heels and he tried not to care about that as he put some distance between them. As he walked, he realized that they were far outside the boundaries of the salt-soaked rope that he'd buried in the ground, which was definitely a good thing. Meant that it was working like it was supposed to.

Sam dropped into a painful crouch once he felt like he was far enough away. His leg almost gave under him, and he was forcibly reminded that there was a reason he didn't hunt. He swept the dead needles away from a reasonably large area, exposing the powdery dirt underneath, then scrawled out a simple, familiar symbol with two fingers. Once he was finished, he grabbed onto the nearest tree to help him back to his feet, opened the backpack, and rummaged past the canisters of salt and flasks of holy water to find a small handgun. After kicking the litter back over what he'd drawn in the dirt, he raised the gun, and fired a shot at the sky.

It echoed. Of course it did, he was in the mountains. Everyone for miles around must have heard at least a faint suggestion of it – and they didn't have the hearing of a demon.

Just like he'd predicted, she came running. As the bait, he made sure that he was extremely visible, standing calmly between two trees with the backpack dangling from his hands. She did better in heels than a veteran stripper, wove around trees as a blur, her eyes widening in recognition once she finally had a clear line of sight to Sam – and then she stopped dead about two feet from him. Her face registered shock, then realization. The black faded back into her pupils as she looked down and swept some needles aside with one pump to reveal several of the lines that Sam had drawn in the dirt.

"I should have expected this," she said, shaking a strand of hair out of her face as she raised her eyes to look at him. "They told me you weren't stupid. Not after what happened last time, at least."

"You're here for Dean," Sam replied. It wasn't a question. He already knew it was true.

"Knight Dantalion," the demon corrected. "Alastair's going to be  _pissed_  when he finds out that he gave you that name.

"Alastair can't get to him right now," Sam replied. He really hoped that he was right; he hadn't exactly designed his wards with a Lord of Hell in mind. "Let's talk about something more relevant." He unzipped the backpack again. "You have black eyes and you're not a Knight of Hell, which means that you're about as weak as a demon can get. Why did you come here alone?"

She switched her eyes back to black and stuck out her tongue. "I'm not going to answer your questions just because you managed to catch me in a devil's trap. I can wait you out."

Sam sighed a little, and reached into the backpack, hand closing around one of several flasks. He pulled it out, unscrewed the top, and splashed about a quarter of the contents into the demon's face. Steam billowed up and she immediately started to shriek, hands flying up to try and claw the holy water off. She spastically stamped her feet and shook her head from side to side.

"Tell me why you're here all alone," Sam repeated, shaking the flask where she could see it, "and I won't do it again."

"I'm a fucking  _scout_ , you crazy bastard!" she screamed at him. "They sent me here to check out what kinds of wards you'd set up after Castigli's raid! But I can't even get within, like, a mile of your stupid fucking house!"

Sam was shocked into silence for about a second. "Have you…never had holy water splashed on you before?"

_"_ _No!"_

"Okay. Awesome." He turned the flask slowly in his hand, watching the demon calm down. Her eyes were clamped shut and both her face and hands were smeared with wet makeup. He could see the vessel's skin under the stuff as it dripped off. Dry, sallow-looking, bluish. Like something that had been dead for a few days. "I've got a few questions I want to ask you. About Dantalion."

"I don't know anything!" she protested, opening her black eyes a slit. Her eyelashes were matted together with damp mascara. A few of them looked loose.

"Well, we'll see," Sam replied.

"I don't know about – about Cain, or what Alastair and Lilith's plans are, or how Dantalion's been leading all the others," she insisted, reaching up to wipe the mascara out of the way with her fingertips. "I mean, I know why they wanted him and how he became a Knight and all that shit, but that's  _it_ , and everybody knows that."

Sam blinked, then smirked at the demon, absentmindedly swirling the holy water around in its flask. "That's great. 'Cause that's exactly what I wanna know."

"Okay, okay – " She licked her lips, then spat out a mouthful of lipstick. Maybe something else, too. A foul smell suddenly hit Sam; this vessel had been dead for at least a week. She obviously wasn't as good at taking care of her meat as Dean was. "If I answer your questions, will you let me go?"

"Sure." Of course not. He stepped a little closer to the devil's trap. "Tell me what he sold his soul for."

She squinted at him, then snorted, before using one sleeve of her expensive-looking suit to wipe the dripping makeup off of her face. "You don't get to be a Knight of Hell by selling your soul, dipshit. No, that's how you end up where  _I_  am." She pulled her arm back and glared critically down at it. "Damn. Why do chicks wear so much makeup?"

Despite the vessel, Sam was beginning to doubt that he was actually dealing with a female demon. But it was easier just to think of it as a she. So, more confused by what she had said than the gender of the soul inside the body, he asked her, "If he didn't make a deal, how'd he wind up in Hell?"

"They tracked him down," the demon replied. "Beat him into submission. Took a couple of days, from what I've heard. Then they sicced the 'hounds on him and had Alastair waiting for him in the Pit."

Sam listened but, honestly, it just confused him more. Why go to so much trouble for just one hunter? If he was really worth all that, why didn't they just kill him?

"What was so important about him?" he asked out loud, shaking his head. "I was a hunter, too, just like him, and nobody ever kidnapped me and forced me to become a demon."

"Probably because you sucked." He raised the flask, and she squeaked in fear. "Sorry, sorry, sorry – you probably didn't suck, sorry."

"What was so important about him?" Sam repeated, all business.

"He was gonna shut us  _down_ ," she replied, her fear apparently having passed. "For good. All of us. We would've been done forever if he'd been able to finish what he was doing when they finally caught up to him."

"And…what was he doing?" Sam asked uncertainly. He had never heard of anything like that before. Had Dean been systematically wiping out the demonic race, one at a time? No, because a lot of hunters tried to do that. Some for years before they realized that it was a lost cause, because of the exponential rate at which they multiplied. Like ants.

"Trying to close the Gates of Hell," the demon he'd caught replied. "Capital G. Not one of the little gateways. It would have locked us in forever – no way to get out or make new demons."

"That's impossible," Sam blurted before thinking. He hadn't even known that there were main Gates (capital G) to Hell. The Bible made a few references to them, sure, but he had learned the hard way to take everything that the Bible said with a grain of salt. Pretty much everything in there was a misinterpretation. Or maybe just a mistranslation. He didn't know; he'd never read the original Hebrew.

"Well, apparently not," the demon said, tone just a little snarkier than it strictly needed to be. "There were three tasks that he needed to do, and he'd finished two of them before they stopped him. We all felt it whenever he completed one." She gave a quick jerk of her shoulders, as if trying to get rid of a crawling sensation between them. "They really took a lot outta him. They thought so, anyway. Alastair was shocked it took so long to break him, from what I heard." She showed her teeth. "And they really went all out."

Sam felt loathing rise in him like vomit induced by food poisoning, and flexed his self-control in an effort to tamp it down. There was more he needed to know. More he could learn from this thing.

"Tell me how he actually became a Knight," he ordered. He was done phrasing it as a question. "Instead of just a normal demon."

The demon rocked back and forth in her pumps, poking her tongue out of the corner of her mouth, and just stared at Sam, not answering. He raised the flask of holy water. She shrank back to the far side of the devil's trap and threw her forearms up in front of her face.

"I'm just thinking!" she yelped. "Give me a minute."

"You have ten seconds," replied Sam, who wasn't feeling very patient at the moment.

"Okay, I, uh – Alastair did him first. Like he does. Gave him special attention. We had to have him on our side, so he'd be invested in keeping the Gates open." She raked a hand agitatedly through her hair, wincing when she hit the clip. "Then they brought Cain in."

"Cain."

"Yeah. You know? Oldest son of Adam and Eve?" She was talking fast. Probably trying to avoid having Sam splash her. "Father of murder? First Knight of Hell? Lords have gotta be made by Lucifer, and Knights have gotta be made by him."

That was quite a bit of information to take in, but Sam guessed that he would sort through it all later. Preferably with Dean's help.

"It took forever to track him down," the demon went on, "and he disappeared once he was done. Dantalion's the last Knight he ever made."

"Okay." Sam let out a huge breath. Sort through it all later. Right. "I've only got one more question."

"Aaand…then you'll let me go?" the demon asked hopefully.

"Yep," Sam lied. He leaned forward a little, unconsciously. His leg didn't like it. "Does Dantalion still remember how to close the Gates?"

"He shouldn't," the demon replied. "Alastair and Cain really fucked with his memory. So nobody could torture it out of him, I guess."

Sam sighed. "Yeah, of course."

"Let me go," the demon demanded, pointing to the edge of the devil's trap. "That was your last question. You said."

"Yeah, I'll let you go." Sam screwed the top back on the flask and dropped it into his backpack before pulling out a replica of the knife that he kept inside the cabin, in his bedroom closet. "So you can go and tell them what I asked you, and what my wards are like."

The demon screamed and threw dirt at him. It didn't slow him down much. Especially because she was already rotting; the blade went in easily.

As the body burned, Sam returned the backpack to the shed and picked up the bag of ice that he'd originally gone out for. He hesitated before walking inside, but then screwed up his courage and got it over with. Dean called out to him as soon as the door opened.

"What happened?" he demanded. "You were gone forever – I heard a pistol shot. Did you kill someone? Did someone try to kill you?"

Sam put the ice in the freezer, silent, then walked over to Dean's cell, where the Knight was waiting with his jaw set and his arms crossed.

"I need to know how to close the Gates of Hell," Sam told him.


	18. Chapter Eighteen

_Repressed memories are really more common than you might think in our line of work. Mostly because there's a lot that can give you a limited (or full-blown) case of amnesia. Physical trauma, emotional trauma, spells, potions, hypnosis, mental manipulation, time displacement. All of these happen pretty often on hunts – though, admittedly, some happen more often than others. Sometimes you can avoid them, but most of the time, you just won't be able to. Chances are that you or somebody you know has something blocked off in their head, either voluntarily or otherwise._

_And chances are that you or they or both don't want to remember it. Sometimes, witches or monsters or other nasties will lock away important memories of yours to slow you down or cripple you, but that's usually not the case, and it's really hard to tell when it is. So a general rule of thumb is_ don't bother it. _Don't try to remember. Don't keep scratching at the block. It's like a loose tooth, but in this particular case, the tooth is in adult tooth, and if you poke it with your tongue until it comes out, then there's no way to put it back in._

_There are bound to be some memories that you put away for a reason. If you really,_ really _think that it's important, go to a psychic or a hypnotist. Or a witch you know who toes the line. A professional, in other words, who can get that memory out without turning you into a gibbering mess. Don't try to dig it up yourself. And if your professional tells you to leave it alone, do it. There are much more enjoyable ways of hurting yourself out there._

-  _"_ _Hunting and Amnesia," posted on website of Sam Winchester_

* * *

Sam watched for the slightest flicker of reaction – any reaction – from Dean, but he didn't see it. He just cocked an eyebrow and, skeptically, asked, "You need what, now?"

"I need to know how to close the Gates of Hell," Sam repeated, managing to keep his voice neutral.

Dean was silent for a few seconds, mouth slightly open, eyes narrowing at Sam. Then he shook his head and stated, "I'm pretty sure you can't do that."

"You can," Sam promised. "There's a ritual. Three tasks."

"Does one of them involve taking off for forty-five minutes and firing a gun?" Dean asked. "'Cause if not, I really don't give a shit right now, Sam. Sorry." He turned around and walked back to his chair. He'd taken the books out of it, setting them aside, but one was still open on the seat. He picked it up before sitting down and tossed it, carelessly, into Sam's chair. "I wanna know what happened outside."

Sam blew out a deep breath. Maybe this was a good way to segue into it – what he needed from Dean and how he was going to get it. "There was a demon."

Dean's eyes widened, and he stood straight up out of his chair. "There was another demon out here? Didn't you think that that  _might_  be important enough to tell me about?"

"You didn't sense it?" Sam asked. Obviously not, but he wanted to make sure.

"Not inside a devil's trap  _and_  a Circle of Solomon." Dean gestured to the cell that surrounded him. "But you couldn't've, either. How'd you know it was out there? What happened?"

"I saw the vessel walking through the trees while I was getting the ice," Sam replied. He stepped through the doorway, and Dean made room for him by moving the book again. "I didn't know for sure that it was a demon. Not at first. I checked it out, though, just in case – I've been sorta paranoid lately. Can't imagine why."

Dean swore as he sank back down into his chair. "Jesus, Sam. You coulda died…"

"Yeah, maybe, but it was a really weak demon." Sam joined him, perching on the very lip of his chair. One of his legs began to bounce up and down with jittery, nervous excitement. Maybe the whole thing had wound him up a lot more than he thought. "Black eyes, no sign of any telekinetic powers. Had apparently never been splashed with holy water before…it was alone. Said it was a scout."

"A scout." Dean rolled his eyes all of a sudden, dragging a hand through his short hair. "Oh, man. What was the vessel like?"

That was a question Sam hadn't been expecting. "Uh…it was a woman…"

"Blond?" Dean asked, leaning back in his chair. "Big…?" He trailed off and cupped his hands in front of his chest, raising his eyebrows. Sam wondered why he didn't just say "tits." He hadn't seemed to have a problem with the word before. When Nadia was still alive.

"Yeah," Sam admitted.

"Nice suit?"

"Yeah."

"Cory," Dean announced with a huge exhale, looking up at the ceiling. "He's a huge fuckin' perv. Sold out at  _five_ , so – you can guess when they got him." He glanced at Sam. " _Was_  a huge fuckin' perv, though, I'm assuming."

"Did I just kill a fifteen-year-old?" Sam asked. Fifteen. Wow. Vaughn's age. His leg started jerking up and down faster, the heel of the boot he was still wearing bouncing off the concrete floor.

"No, you just killed a five hundred-year-old," Dean replied, leaning forward again and resting his forearms on his thighs. "Give or take. More importantly…" He cleared his throat. "You killed a demon. A scout. You kept us safe."

Sam nodded in understanding. Dean exhaled powerfully through his nostrils, staring at him, then reached over and clapped a heavy hand down on top of his knee. He forced it still, and kept his hand there for a while.

"You have gotta cut that out," he said frankly. "It's driving me freaking insane, and Hell already made me a psychopath. I don't need to be psychotic, too." Slowly, he took his hand away. Sam was tempted to start jiggling again, but giving into that urge would probably get him smacked or worse. "Look." Dean cleared his throat. "I don't know what you're all hopped up on, Sammy, but you've gotta calm down. You spend almost an hour running another demon down in the woods, then you come in here and start talking to me about closing the Gates of Hell. I've got no idea what's going on. You're gonna have to explain it to me." He clasped his hands between his knees and fixed Sam with a steady green gaze. "Let's start with this: you tell me what that gunshot was all about."

"Okay." Sam blew out a breath as he smoothed his pants down his denim-covered thighs. Dean was right; he really did need to calm down. "I've got a backpack out in the shed. It's full of the basic stuff for…y'know, home defense. Salt, holy water, handgun…"

"Did you shoot at Cory?" Dean asked, loosely crossing his legs. "You've gotta know that doesn't hurt us. Not even if you damage the vessel."

"No. I know," Sam replied. "I snuck up on him, and got a ways away as soon as I saw the eyes. Then I drew a devil's trap in the dirt and fired at the sky."

Dean nodded in understanding and what Sam would like to think was grudging admiration. "Okay. Clever." He tipped his head to the side. "So he came running, you caught him, and…?"

"I interrogated him," Sam replied. "Holy water. It…really only took one splash, and then he just told me everything I needed to know so I wouldn't do it again."

"Yeah, that sounds like him," Dean said with a snort. "Glad you ganked the son of a bitch, honestly. Never could put up with his whining." He shook his head, as if to clear it of memories. "So. What'd he tell you? Something about the Gates of Hell, obviously."

"He told me about you," Sam said, after some hesitation.

Dean raised a brow. "What about me?"

"Why and how you became a Knight of Hell." Sam stood, moved his chair, and sat down again. He and Dean had been sitting, very loosely, side by side. Now they were sitting across from each other. Dean didn't comment on the change in position.

"Well, a hellhound tore me a new one," he began, and thumped himself in the sternum with a closed fist. "Right in the middle of the chest. I woke up hanging from a bunch of meathooks, and Alastair found me, and then Cain was there, too. He did a bunch of fucked up things to me with his creepy teeth knife, and then I was a Knight." He spread his arms wide.

"Yeah, Cain's a problem, too." Sam cleared his throat. "Not one that I can deal with right now, though." He had other, more pressing matters to focus on. "Why did the hellhounds come after you in the first place?"

"I made a deal, obviously," Dean said with a shrug. "That's how everybody ends up in Hell, isn't it?"

"When you were eighteen?" Sam pressed.

"Must've been," Dean agreed.

"Okay, what'd you sell your soul for?" Just starting to get a little frustrated, Sam spread his hands.

"Well, I don't know," Dean replied. "I told you. I barely remember anything at all, and that's apparently one of the things that I forgot. But something huge must've happened to send me to a crossroads."

"You didn't  _go_  to a crossroads," Sam protested. "You didn't make a deal. The demons tracked you down, they beat you – and then they set the hellhounds loose on you. To drag you to Hell. To Cain. Because they needed you on their side."

Dean squinted at him for a moment, then shook his head with a slight chuckle. "Okay, I was a pretty kickass hunter when I was alive, but I'm pretty sure I wasn't  _that_  good."

"They wanted you because you knew how to close the Gates of Hell," Sam told him. "And because you were getting close. There were three tasks, and you'd completed two. They couldn't let you finish – or tell anybody else what you knew."

"Did Cory tell you all of this?" Dean asked evenly.

"Yes," Sam replied.

"Ohh-kay." Dean pushed himself to his feet with a grunt. "Having a little trouble understanding why you believe him over me."

"Well, what's your story?" Sam shot back. "That you sold your soul? You don't even remember doing that!"

"Yeah, but you gotta admit, it sounds a whole lot more plausible than me knowing how to close the Gates of Hell," Dean replied, spreading his hands. "'Cause that's impossible. You can't do it. Take it from me – I'm the commander of an army of demons." Sam realized that he should probably try to find out more about that army. Sometime. "IF there were a way to cut us off from the source of out power, close it in…don't you think I'd know about it?"

"But you  _do_ ," Sam insisted. "Look. Your memory is screwed up. I've never come across a demon with that problem before. Couldn't it be because they didn't want you to be able to tell somebody how to do it if they tortured you?"

"Okay. All right." Dean raised a hand, glancing down at his boots before making eye contact with Sam again. "Fine. I'll give you that one. But if it's true…" He shrugged. "Then what you wanted to know is gone forever. There's no way to get it outta me."

Sam cleared his throat. Dean snorted.

"What're you gonna do, hypnotize me?" he asked, heavily skeptical. "Hate to break it to you, but I don't think it's gonna work."

"I have a spell," Sam began.

"Of course you do." Dean turned away from him and started to walk around the cell, hands stuffed into the pockets of his new jeans. He was clearly agitated. "Ain't that convenient."

"I've spent the better part of five years doing nothing but research," Sam replied. "I have a spell for everything. Summoning Amaterasu, tripling the growth speed of plants, talking to birds…" He began to flip up his fingers as he spoke. "Turning your hair blue, killing your husband's mistress, extinguishing the sun…"

"Uh…" Looking uneasy, Dean glanced back over his shoulder. "What was that last one?"

"Don't worry about it. It requires a sacrifice of twelve billion living humans, so we've got some time," Sam replied. "My point is that a memory spell isn't that farfetched. Or that hard." He paused for a second before admitting, "I'm…not actually sure if it'll work or not, though."

"Oh, you're not, huh?" Dean asked dryly, putting his hands on the back of his chair as he leaned heavily on it.

"It's just – it's meant for remembering little things," Sam defended himself. "Like where you left your keys or when your boss's birthday is. It wasn't designed to bring back stuff as big as…" He shrugged. "You know. Closing the Gates of Hell."

"So why even bring it up?" Dean asked, shaking his head.

"Because I think I can make it stronger," Sam said, slowly.

Another snort. "You mean you wanna try and force more power into a ritual that wasn't meant to channel it? You're not a witch, Sam. Not by blood or by anything else. Trust me – I can tell." Dean shook his head. "You're gonna end up killing yourself and ruining my vessel. Excuse me for not wanting either of those things to happen."

"Lemme try," Sam pleaded, standing up himself. It felt too weird to try and debate with someone who was walking around the room while he was sitting. "Just think about – "

"Think about what?" Dean interrupted him. Sam wasn't entirely surprised to note that he sounded angry (again), but he was still pretty disappointed by the reaction. "Think about how  _important_  it is, to the band of freaking psychos out there who kill stuff like me for fun and only keep  _you_  alive because you stay outta the way and figured out how to be useful, that we get rid of all the demons?" He stopped in front of one of the walls and the sigil painted on it, keeping his back to it and folding his arms across his chest again. His posture somehow made it clear to Sam that he could have been leaning back against the bare concrete – if all the warding had let him. "Okay. You seem to keep forgetting this, but  _I_  – " He switched his eyes to black and pointed at them with both index fingers, glaring at Sam. " – am a demon. I don't know what'll happen if those Gates swing shut. If I'll be yanked back and locked in with all the other freaks, or if I'll just start losing power until I don't even have enough juice to keep my vessel from rotting off me." Sam tried not to, but he flinched at that visual anyway. Dean must have seen it, because his voice softened and the black of his eyes retracted back into his pupils. "What makes you think I'd wanna close the Gates?"

"I'm not asking you to  _do_  it," Sam replied frustratedly. "I just wanna see if I can get you to remember it. Is that asking so much?"

"Yeah." Dean smirked. "I've got you pegged, sunshine. As soon as I tell you, you're gonna start trying to do it. Or you'll tell somebody else, somebody you know can do it for you. For the good of the world or whatever. You're practically leaking the milk of human kindness all over the damn floor." He gave Sam a level look. "You would send me back there. If it meant getting rid of all the others, too."

"No," Sam blurted without thinking about it.

_"_ _Yes,"_  Dean insisted, walking across the cell towards him. "I know your type. Rare in our circles, but I hunted with a couple, when I was human. More in love with humanity as a whole than you could ever be with any one person, and I'm not sure that five years of isolation have helped your ability to form personal attachments."

"How is you acting like a dick supposed to convince me not to cast the spell?" Sam snapped, hurt.

"I'm trying to tell you," Dean replied, enunciating every word carefully, "that I'm not like you. I never was – it doesn't have anything to do with being a Knight of Hell. I've always had my whole universe revolve around just a few people, instead of the whole freaking world. Right now, it's just two people. Me…" He stabbed a thumb towards himself. "…and you." He pointed to Sam, whose mouth twitched. "I just don't give a rat's ass about anybody else. Or what other demons might do to them."

Sam felt the muscles of his stomach clench at Dean's brutal honesty, but at the same time, he guessed he couldn't fault him all that much for having a worldview that two-thirds of the population probably shared. Considering what he was, he should really just be amazed that Dean cared about him at all.

But Sam wasn't like that (as Dean had so helpfully pointed out to him). He was burning alive with the need to know how to close the Gates. So, folding his arms across his pectorals, he tried a different tack: "You actually sound pretty sure that you  _do_  know how to do it. Somewhere."

Dean eyed him with distaste, before folding his own arms and beginning with, "Okay. Sam." He fixed him with a steady green glare. "Just how dumb d'you think I am? They cut away all my warm fuzzies down in the Pit, not my brain. I'm not gonna agree to your jackass plan just so I can prove to you that I really don't know how to close the Gates."

Well…when he put it like that, it really did sound stupid. "Worth a shot," Sam replied, before clearing his throat. "I'm desperate."

"Yeah, I can tell." Dean's voice softened all of a sudden, all of the irritation and scorn disappearing. He let his arms dangle loosely by his sides as he closed the distance between the two of them. Sam didn't move, even though he was tempted to after he'd been told that Dean didn't give a shit about anyone else. "But you shouldn't be." He pulled Sam into a tight, secure hug. After a moment's hesitation, Sam relaxed into it with a soft sigh. It felt too good to fight. "You don't need to care about the world out there. You're totally safe here, with me. And besides. What's the outside world ever done for you?"

"It's where all my food comes from," Sam replied. His mouth was pressed into Dean's shoulder, so his voice came out muffled. "For one."

" _I_  could bring you food," Dean told him. He'd started rubbing his back, and it was insanely soothing. Sam went practically boneless against him, a Pavlovian response from his early childhood, and he easily held him up. "And books. And shampoo. And toilet paper. And all those other squishy human things that you've just gotta have to stay alive." He moved his hand up to stroke Sam's hair, and Sam regained his feet, embarrassed. "I mean, you'd have to let me out first, but – "

Sam interrupted him by getting his hands up between them and pushing Dean's arms off of himself. He didn't resist much, letting him manipulate him. Stepping back, Sam met Dean's mildly-concerned expression with an unimpressed one. He folded his arms again, which seemed to be rapidly turning into his go-to position.

"Let you out," he stated, skeptically.

Dean stared uncomprehendingly at him for about a second, then his eyes slid closed and he huffed with realization. "Okay – "

"Is that what this is all about?" Sam interrupted him. He wasn't sure if he was actually angry, actually believed that the demon was trying to trick him into freeing him, or if he was just acting. It'd been a long day. And it was barely past noon. "Are you just trying to get me to let you out of the Circle? What'll you do if I shatter one of the runes? Kill me? Or do you really care about me – would you just leave and go back to your Lords and your army?" Maybe he was just voicing the fears that he'd had since this relationship, unconventional and dangerous, had started.

"Cut it out, Sam," Dean said, full lips tightened into a thin line. "You know that's not what I'd do if you let me out of here."

"So you still want out.

"Well, yeah, of course I do – no offense to you, but this cell sucks," Dean replied, sounding a little angry. "A chair and some books haven't made it a whole lot more comfortable. But if you're afraid of me, still…" He spread his hands, a gesture of helplessness. "Then I can stay in here. Anything to make you feel safe."

Sam strained to hear any trace of sarcasm in that last statement, but if it was there, then he couldn't find it. He reached up to drag a hand, fingers spread, through his long hair. He shook his head.

"You're a Knight of Hell," he said. "You told me that I was gonna get hurt."

"But I don't wanna leave the Circle so I can hurt you," Dean replied, trying to convince him. "Or leave you. I promise."

"Then – prove it to me," Sam said. He wished it came out as confident as it had sounded in his head. "Let me do this spell. Try and remember. Just so I can know if…there really is a way to do it. To close the Gates."

Dean looked at Sam, lowering himself into the nearest chair. Sam saw his mouth work, like he was chewing at the inside of his lips or cheeks. He did that a lot; must be a bad habit. After a couple of seconds, he shook his head, scoffing out a laugh.

"You are really bad at this, aren't you?" he asked, regarding Sam with amusement that he didn't even try to hide. Sam scowled at him. "Sorry, Sammy, but you just suck at manipulation." He shook his head again. "You are such a girl."

"I guess I just haven't had much opportunity to screw with people, these last few years," Sam replied, a little stiffly. "I just haven't had as much practice as you."

"Don't – don't try to make this into a good thing," Dean said, raising a hand to stop him. "This is just sad." He paused. "Are you actually afraid of me?"

Sam took a deep breath, blew it out, and admitted, "Yeah. I think so."

"Probably smart." Dean licked his lips. He pushed himself up then, clearing his throat, said, "So. You tried. A for effort."

"Thanks," Sam said dryly, walking over to the chair that Dean wasn't occupying and sinking into it. The demon reached over and took his hand, squeezing so he could feel his calluses.

"This Gate thing is really that important to you?" he asked. Sam nodded.

"I'm a researcher," he explained, shrugging. "I've…gotta know."

Dean sighed heavily. "All right." He got to his feet, tugging Sam with him. "We'll give it a shot. Sammy, get your spellbook."

Sam blinked. "You're gonna let me – "

"Yeah, I'm sick of you whining about it," Dean said, rolling his eyes. He gave Sam a shove in the direction of the cell door. "Go. I've had way more than I needed of your bitchiness today."

"Thanks." Sam hurred, afraid that Dean would change his mind. His boots scuffed quickly over the floor. He needed to take them off. "Thanks, Dean, it really – "

"Sure," Dean interrupted. "After all. Who'm I to tell you that you can't kill yourself if you really, really want to?"


	19. Chapter Nineteen

_She was a couple of years older than me, maybe about eighteen. She was still in high school, I know that for sure, and it wasn't because she'd been held back. She was smart. That was why we met in the first place – we were both in Honors Chem, and the teacher paired us together as partners._

_Kara never pushed me into anything. If I wasn't ready, it wasn't anybody's fault but my own. In the beginning, I don't even think that she was interested in me. Not in that way, and not in any other way, either. She was just nice to me because she was a good person. She helped me with my homework when I'd been out too late with Dad to finish it the night before, she let me copy her notes when I missed a day, she even let me eat part of her lunch one time when we'd run out of money and I was starving. I was sixteen. Is it any really wonder I fell for her?_

_I came over to her house to study one time, after school. I ate dinner there. We ended up having sex. It happened a lot slower than that, of course, and looking back on it, I'm almost positive that I wanted it more than she did, but it still happened. She had condoms. We did it under the covers, because her parents were home, but downstairs. It wasn't actually her first time, but I thought it was, so I tried to make it good for her. I don't remember if she came. I don't really remember if I did, either. All I can think of right now is how it felt to get lost in her, and how it felt to fall asleep next to her for about an hour._

_She woke me up then, and told me that I had to go home. She was still naked, wrapped up in a sheet. It was a Friday night. We left town that Sunday. I wish I hadn't made love to her, because doing that and then leaving without ever seeing her again was the most painful thing I'd ever been through. Until I was seventeen, at least._

-  _Personal journal of Sam Winchester_

* * *

Dean huffed out a very loud, obnoxious sigh, and Sam felt the warm breath of it puff against the underside of his wrist as he reached over his face to adjust the candle there. Green eyes stared up at him, determined, and he finally gave Dean the contact that he'd been struggling to get for the last five minutes or so. He arched an eyebrow at him.

"Bored?" he asked. A little redundantly. Since it was so flamingly obvious.

"This seems like way too much trouble to go through to remember where you put your damn keys," Dean replied, turning his head to look at the candles. Sam grabbed his forehead and forcibly turned it back.

"Don't move," he commanded. "For the twentieth time." He reached for a plastic baggie next to his legs, folded under him in a kneeling position. "Traditionally, you just light one candle and sit in front of it. This is just me trying to boost the spell."

"Only  _one_  traditionally?" Dean asked. "Jeez, Sammy. There's about fifty here." All arranged in a tight sarcophagus shape around Dean, who was lying stiffly on the hard floor. "You're gonna have me remembering my own conception." He paused. "Please take some of these away."

"No," Sam replied, tugging open the baggie.

_"_ _Please."_

"No!" He reached in and took out a handful of the powder inside. "You're not gonna remember your own conception." Maybe his birth, but he hadn't had anything remotely resembling a brain at conception. So, no memories. Sam sprinkled a long, thin line of the powder down Dean's bare torso, from the hollow of his throat to his navel. Almost immediately, the demon began to gag.

"What the hell is that?" he asked, raising his head. Sam firmly pushed it back down.

"Dried ginkgo leaves," he replied. "Helps with memory."

"It smells like barf," Dean told him seriously.

"It'd be a lot worse if they were fresh, trust me." Sam closed the baggie of ginkgo and reached for another one, dusting his hand off on his jeans. "Okay, this is ginseng."

"I feel like a freaking roast," Dean grumbled. "Why don't you go get some rosemary and basil while you're at it?"

"Close your eyes," Sam instructed, then sprinkled a small pile on each of his eyelids when he did as he was told. "All right. Last thing."

Dean sniffed as Sam opened the third baggie. "Yarrow?"

"Yep," Sam replied as he laid a line across Dean's freckled forehead. "Helps with spells. Magic conductor."

"Super sensitive to magic, too," Dean said. "Grows around witches' houses and crossroads that my guys show up at a lot. I know. I was a hunter, remember?"

"I keep forgetting," Sam admitted softly. He stood up with the baggies, all closed now, and walked over the chairs, where he exchanged them for an older notebook full of scribbled spells and his notes on them.

"Me, too," Dean said, without a trace of humor in his voice.

Sam returned to him, kneeling above his head this time and flipping the notebook open to the page that he wanted. It was easy to find, since it was so well-worn. Which certainly wasn't because he used it at least once a week to remember when he'd last shaved.

He laid the notebook down in front of him, between his spread knees, and pulled a lighter out of his back pocket. Dean's eyes twitched under his lids, dislodging a few grains of dried ginseng.

"Is that one cursed?" he asked.

"Shouldn't be," Sam replied. "I've been using it for a couple years now."

They were the black candles that he had planned to use for the immobilizing spell, standing around Dean. Once one was lit, they all caught. He spun the wheel of the lighter until a flame appeared, then touched it to the wick of the nearest candle. All the others immediately sprang to life. He heard Dean grunt in surprise, and maybe a little bit of fear, too. Even though fire couldn't hurt him.

Sam put the lighter back in his pocket and picked up his notebook, scanning the invocation. The final part of the spell. He hesitated, and murmured to Dean, "Ready?"

"As I'll ever be," Dean replied, clearing his throat.

Sam swallowed, and began to read. The spell was Asian and the dialect was difficult, but he was so used to it that he probably could have recited it from memory. The candle flames flared suddenly when he was halfway through, turning a bright, acidic green. Dean stirred in the middle of them.

"What's going on?" he asked, voice little more than a whisper. Sam couldn't respond, obviously, but he held the notebook with one hand and reached down with the other to touch his hair. It was warm, and Dean pressed slightly towards the touch, seemingly trying not to dislodge any of the herbs.

The flames wavered, filling the cell with green light. Shadows, twisted and fleeting, flickered across the floor and in the carvings. Suddenly, Sam's voice faltered, doubtful. Would the spell work inside of a Circle of Solomon? It was designed to contain demons, but that might extend to magic. It was a little too late to test it out now, though. He kept going, voice strengthening again.

When he finished, the flames abruptly went out, leaving them in relative darkness. Sunlight still streamed through the bars of the gate. Sam licked his lips, mouth dry, and set the notebook aside. He started moving the candles even as thin tendrils of smoke still rose from their tips, stacking them up so that he could put them back in the cabinet he'd gotten them from. He brushed the yarrow off of Dean's forehead with the side of one wax-covered hand. "You can move now. I'm done."

Dean sat up with a groan, immediately brushing the ginkgo and ginseng off of himself. He squinted at Sam, before moving to help him with the candles. As soon as they'd all been moved, he stood up, grabbing his shirt off of the back of one of the chairs and pulling it on. Sam watched him, legs folded and hands on his knees.

"So…did it work?" he asked. Dean shrugged, turning to look down at him.

"I don't know," he said. "How fast does it usually work?"

Sam sucked his teeth. "Instantly." He pushed himself to his feet. "Try thinking about it. It doesn't pop right into your head."

"Okay." Dean blew out a breath, reaching up to lace his fingers together behind his head. "You go ahead and put your stuff up. I'll just…try to remember."

Silently, Sam scooped up an armful of candles and grabbed the baggies of dried herbs. The former went back into the cabinet, tied together in bundles of three again, and the returned the latter to the shed. He glanced out the window, almost instinctively, but he didn't see any more demons out in the forest. There was a deer, but he doubted that it was a threat.

He headed back inside, meaning to put away the rest of the candles and his notebook. It was clear to him that the spell hadn't worked – it hadn't been meant for such a huge recall. The whole thing about closing the Gates of Hell had probably just been a lie, anyway. Dean didn't know anything.

Sam was jarred out of his thoughts as soon as he was close enough to see into the demon cell. Dean was slumped in one of the chairs, head tilted slightly, apparently looking at nothing. Sam felt concern spike through his chest and pushed open the gate, stepping over the threshold and the line of salt (smeared and scattered by now, useless) and into the cell. Dean glanced at him as he did. He'd been facing away from him, so he hadn't been able to see that his eyes had gone black.

"I was an alcoholic," he told him. Sam stopped just inside the doorway, wary.

"Huh?" he asked.

"I was an alcoholic," Dean repeated. "A bad one. I was twenty-eight and I'd been drinking every day for more than half that. It was the only way I could cope. Explains why the first thing I wanted when I got outta the Pit was a shot of whiskey – and why my liver was in so much worse shape than the rest of me when I went to put my body back together."

Sam stared at him. It was on the tip of his tongue, to assure Dean that almost every hunter out there was either an alcoholic or addicted to something else, like painkillers or sex. But maybe that wasn't what he should be focusing on right now.

"You're remembering," he said blankly. Dean nodded.

"Favorite food was bacon cheeseburgers," he said, looking away from Sam again. "Goddamn. I was  _not_  a healthy person."

Sam walked across the floor with bare feet, approaching Dean where he was sitting in his chair. Laying a hand on his shoulder, he quietly began, "The Gates – "

Dean cut him off, by sucking in a harsh, horrified breath. His hand flew up, latching onto Sam's and squeezing with supernatural strength. Sam hissed in pain, but didn't pull away. He wasn't sure he could.

"They ate my guts." Dean's voice was deeper than normal. Rougher. "My intestines. Tore me open and went for the organs that wouldn't kill me right away. Wondered where they went, after I tracked down my body."

"A – " Sam tried to ask a question, but was too shocked to quite manage it. He tried again. "Are you talking about the hellhounds?"

"Of course I am, you fucking idiot." Dean coughed. "What the hell else would I be talking about?"

Sam felt a little flutter of irritation at the insult, but he ignored it, letting Dean keep crushing his hand instead of pulling away. If he were remembering his own extremely violent and painful death, he'd probably be calling people fucking idiots, too. He put his other hand over Dean's, stroking his knuckles, and decided not to push until he was done with this…flood.

"They told me that they were gonna go after my dad as soon as they'd dealt with me," Dean said. Sam, looking down at him, saw that his eyes were still black and that he was staring at nothing again. "I guess they really might've. You said he disappeared. Just like I did."

Sam couldn't think of anything to say that would comfort him. Even if he could, he wasn't sure that Dean would be able to hear him.

Dean cried out suddenly, releasing Sam's hand as he reached up to grab, panicked, at his face. "Oh my god, what do I look like? What'd they do to me? They cut my lips off – did they grow back?"

"You – you look fine, there's nothing wrong with your face." Sam grabbed Dean's wrists and pulled his hands down, not without some difficulty as he struggled. He was worried about him hurting himself. "Your lips are fine."

"No, you can't  _see_  me!" Dean broke Sam's hold on his wrist and grabbed his face now, both sides. His fingernails, as blunt as they were, cut stinging crescents into the sensitive skin, and he squirmed. Dean didn't seem to notice. "You aren't dying. There aren't hellhounds three feet away with your scent in their noses! You can't see my face! You can't see demons! Not like I did, you're not – you won't – fuck – son of a  _bitch_!" He shoved Sam away, so violently that he would have hit the floor if it hadn't been for some creative stumbling. He touched one of the areas where Dean had dug his nails into him and his fingertips came away flecked with red.

This, he suddenly realized, had not been a good idea.

He looked up again, at Dean, to see that he'd…folded into himself. He'd wrapped his arms around his chest, hugging his ribcage tightly, and he'd drawn his knees up to his face, pressing the caps against his cheekbones. The heels of his boots were set on the edge of his chair and his back was hunched. He seemed to have shrunk to half his size.

"You don't know what we look like," he said. His voice had dropped to a mumble. "Or what we can do…I was a hunter. Shit, I was a hunter." He started to rock a little, and Sam hurried back over him. "I killed these things, hundreds of them. I  _hated_  them, so fucking much…that's why I wanted to close the Gates on 'em…" Sam's heart jumped. But he didn't say anything. "And now I am one. I'm a demon, I'm a Knight of Hell, I…I…" Sam was startled by a dry sob. "My dad would wanna kill me, if he were here. If he knew everything that I've done since I crawled outta Hell."

Sam tentatively reached out, placing a hand on Dean's upper back and feeling the warmth of his skin through the thin fabric of his T-shirt. He twitched under the touch. And then he turned, and Sam found himself pulled into a bone-crushing hug. Or, well, it wasn't really a hug, he guessed. It was more like Dean was clinging to him so that he wouldn't be swept away. He was a chimney in a flood.

"You better not go anywhere," Dean growled. His voice was muffled, because he'd shoved his face into Sam's stomach. "This is your fault. You and your retarded spell. Bastard."

Sam winced, putting his arms around Dean. Who then slipped onto the floor like he was made of jelly. He was still holding onto Sam, so he went down with him, and they ended up sitting on the concrete together, hips pressed close and arms wrapped around each other. Dean leaned heavily against Sam's chest, his head resting on his collarbone. Sam couldn't see his eyes anymore, but he assumed that they were still black, and still blankly open.

"I am… _so_  sorry," Sam began quietly, holding Dean. "You're totally right. This is completely my fault – it was a bad idea. I shouldn't've pushed so hard. Never. I shouldn't've forced you to remember."

"You think?" Dean asked with a snort, then shuddered against Sam. "I lost for the first time when I was sixteen. Against a monster. Troll ate a little girl in front of me, from the feet up. I couldn't do a thing, I was chained to a bridge support." He groaned. "I don't wanna know this stuff."

Sam sighed through his nose. "Yeah, I know."

"It hurts." His arms tightened around Sam, who gasped softly as his ribs creaked.

"I know…" He patted Dean's back between his shoulder blades.

"It's like poison." A breath hissed out of Dean, hot and moist against Sam's bare skin. "I can't fight it…it's everywhere."

Sam started rubbing, silent, and watching the afternoon sunlight creep across the floor.

"If I knew how to kill a Knight…" Dean sighed. "…I'd tell you."

"No, no." Sam held on a little harder, turning his head so that he could press his cheek into Dean's hair. "C'mon, Dean. Don't…don't talk like that, okay? Even if I knew how to, I wouldn't kill you. I couldn't."

"Gordon's not gonna be happy with you," Dean muttered. "He doesn't even think you're human, y'know. Heard him talking to one of his cronies while he had me. He figures someone lamed you and stuck you in the middle of all these wards, so you've gotta help guys like him. Bound to it."

"Well – fuck him, then." Sam was deeply offended, but he really couldn't say that he surprised, given how Gordon treated him and his general thought processes. The guy had killed his own sister and still firmly believed that it was the right thing to do, for Chrissakes. "I don't care if he's mad at me or not, I'm not killing you. Not even if you ask me to." He turned his head a little more, trying to get a glimpse of Dean's face. "Haven't we already been over this?"

"I'm a hunter turned Knight of Hell," Dean replied. "Got nothing to live for. And I really doubt that all your hunter friends out there are gonna find your mercy as cute as I do."

"Not all the way," Sam said, shaking his head. Dean shifted against him in apparent confusion.

"Not all the way what?"

"Not all the way  _turned_ ," Sam replied. "Full-fledged demons can't love. They can't feel pity for somebody else. And they definitely – " He moved a hand, swiped it across Dean's cheek, and the skin was wet. Screw Gordon and his merry band of psychopaths, it was wet. Way too wet to be fake. " – can't cry. Not like this." He turned his face, to press his lips into Dean's short, dirty hair. "I think they missed a spot. Down in the Pit."

Dean was quiet. For a long time, actually. Upwards of fifteen minutes. By the time he started talking again, his position had changed. He was leaning back against Sam's chest, sitting between his spread, bent legs. One of his own legs was stretched out in front of him and the sole of the other's boot was pressed against his knee. His hands were limp in his lap and Sam's arms were wrapped loosely around his waist. Sam was propped up against the wall. Dean's head rested on his shoulder, and his eyes were finally closed.

"You aren't my first," he spoke up in a whisper. Sam didn't say anything, figuring that he'd been silently remembering for the last quarter of an hour and had finally found a fragment that he needed to talk about. "The first one I…loved, I mean. There was another one, before I died. You kinda remind me of him. Smart, y'know. Into books."

Sam cleared his throat. He had to, after being quiet for so long. "What was his name?"

Dean shook his head, rolling it back and forth on Sam's shoulder. "Hasn't come back to me yet." Sam heard him lick his lips, wetting them. "He was a Prophet."

"He was?" Sam instantly became ten times more interested. Prophets were rare. He would have killed for the opportunity to interview one, but they were harder to find than purebred werewolves. "Seriously?"

Dean snorted. "Appreciate the interest in my love life, Sam, but turn off the creepy researcher for a second, okay? I'm trying to tell you something." He shifted, but only a little. "He read a Tablet for me, which was pretty damn important, as it turned out."

"What kind of tablet?" Sam asked, curious despite doing his best to turn off the creepy researcher. Vaughn had called him that, too.

"A Tablet," Dean replied. "Capital 'T,' Sam. You know. A Word of God?"

Sam was sure that Dean felt him tense with shock, but he didn't say anything. After about a minute spent trying to wrap his head around that, he asked, "Dean, where the hell did you even get one of those?"

"Don't remember," Dean answered. "Yet. Anyway, it was apparently the demon Tablet. I kept it in my backpack 'cause I thought that it might be useful, even though I couldn't read it. My Prophet found it one day when he was going through my stuff – he was a nosy little shit, that's another thing that you two have in common." Sam scowled. "He told me that he could tell what it said. So I had him read it to me. Took weeks, gave him migraines, but we finally got through the whole thing."

Chewing on his lip, Sam processed that. "So…" He looked down at Dean expectantly. "What'd you learn?"

"That you were right," he replied, looking up at Sam with green eyes. "I know how to close the Gates of Hell."

There was no delay this time, between Sam hearing the information and his mind understanding it. He instantly got the implications of Dean's words, and was about to lunge to his feet to grab a notebook and a pencil from his desk when Dean continued, stopping him before he could even get started.

"I'm not gonna tell you, though," Dean said wearily. "And before you start bitching, it's because it's impossible to do it. 'S why I stopped. I got so close, and then the last task…I gave up as soon as he told me what it was." He let his head slump a little more. "They didn't need to kill me. I tried to tell them that, but demons'll only listen to you if you're the one holding the knife." He turned his face up to look at Sam. "And they cut my hands off two hours in. After I slipped my cuffs for the third time."

The skin along Sam's spine crawled. And around his wrists.

"Sam." He'd been thinking about voicing his sympathy, but Dean spoke again before he could even open his mouth. "You don't think they turned me all the way. Into a Knight." He raised a hand, laying a hot, callused palm against Sam's cheek and cupping the side of his face. "Make me feel human."

Sam raised his own hand, putting it over Dean's and giving it a light, comforting squeeze. A soft sigh left the demon, and Sam couldn't tell if it was sad or contented.

"Just tell me what the last one is," he whispered to Dean, still holding onto his hand. "Please. So I can know if it's really impossible or not."

Dean's hand slipped out of Sam's, and he pushed away from him, looking over his shoulder with an expression on his face that was nothing short of disappointed. Sam felt guilt pound through him, dull and nauseating. He pushed himself up onto his knees and reached for the hem of Dean's shirt, resting his hands momentarily on his hips.

"I'm sorry," he murmured without meeting Dean's eyes. "I…we don't need to talk about that right now. It doesn't matter." It did, it mattered so much, but it shrank away to a pinpoint in Sam's mind when he lifted Dean's shirt up and exposed his flat, freckled stomach.

"Yeah." Dean helped get his shirt off, tugging it up over his head and tossing it aside so that it landed on the concrete with a quiet  _pompf_.

"This is what you wanted, right?" Sam asked, just to make sure. He worked the button of Dean's jeans back through its denim eye, then unzipped him. "When you told me to make you feel human?"

Dean snorted quietly. "What d'you think? Virgin."

"I'm not a virgin," Sam protested. Dean got to his feet, grabbed Sam's hands, and pulled him up, too.

"Oh, yeah?" he asked, hands sliding under Sam's shirt. They stopped on his sides for a moment before pulling it off of him, the calluses scratching at the soft skin there. "How many other guys have you done?" When Sam was stonily silent, just focusing on getting them both undressed, he grinned triumphantly. "Virgin."

It wasn't long until they were both stark naked, jeans and boxers and, in Dean's case, boots laid out across the sigils that made up the Circle of Solomon. Sam had begun to stir halfway through the process, forgetting how scared he'd been for Dean earlier in favor of getting excited over scoring for the first time in almost a decade. And Dean was already fully erect, length impressive and girth even more so, as he sank into one of the chairs. He slumped down and spread his legs so that his entrance was on display, a tight pink pucker under his balls. Sam throbbed.

"I need to go grab something really quick," he began, voice husky as he tried to remember the last time he'd seen something as hot/beautiful as Dean baring himself for him. Dean shook his head.

"We don't need lube," he said. "Just eat me out. This ain't my first rodeo – your spit'll be more than enough, trust me."

The knee-jerk disgust that Sam felt at the thought of putting his mouth on somebody's ass must have shown on his face, because Dean rolled his eyes. "Okay. It's not as gross as it sounds. I promise." He wrapped a hand, almost absentmindedly, around his engorged cock, and precome welled on the tip of Sam's own. "Maybe if I was still human, but I haven't eaten anything since 'eighty-seven. I'll let you do the math there."

Sam took a step closer to him, and Dean tipped his chin up, looking at him through hooded eyes that had gone dark and glossy with lust. He extended one hand to him, probably to help him down onto his knees, but Sam hesitated.

"There's no part of you that's still…rotting, is there?" he asked uncertainly.

"I sure as hell hope not," Dean replied. Sam didn't find that very reassuring, and Dean must have picked up on that, because he shook his head and amended, "No, I'm not  _rotting_  anymore. I cleaned everything up. I regrew everything. It's all good." He spread his hands. "You're not gonna find anything nasty up there, Sam, I guarantee you."

Sam took his hand, lowering himself into a kneeling position. He spread his hands over Dean's well-muscled thighs, and, on impulse, gave the shaft of his cock an almost playful nudge with the very tip of his nose.

"Sorry," he murmured. He felt a hand in his hair.

"Nah, you're okay," Dean replied. "I wouldn't want any of that kinda stuff in my mouth, either."

Sam's hands tightened on Dean's thighs, fingernails, scraping over the skin. Words tumbled out of his mouth: "I love you. I'm sorry."

Dean's hand slipped down to the back of Sam's head, cupping his skull and tangling his fingers in his hair as he pressed him forward. "Show me."

Sam parted his lips, tongue slipping out. He licked, slicking the hot, dry skin in front of him with his saliva. He tasted sulfur, but he'd expected that. He moved his hands up, onto Dean's hips, and held him tightly there, laving the outside of him thoroughly. He really had no idea what he was doing, mostly just going by instinct. And by the quiet, pleasured sounds that Dean was making above him.

He plunged in after a couple of minutes. More sulfur, but it was also wetter in here, easier to move his tongue around. He'd expected it to be pretty tight, but Dean hadn't been kidding when he said that this wasn't his first rodeo – he opened right up. Sam lapped at his quivering walls, having plenty of room to do so. He flicked the tip of his tongue into every hollow and curve that he found, exploring it. Just like Dean had said, he was completely clean. Beyond the taste of sulfur, at least. And Sam might be able to learn to like that.

"You're not gonna be able to reach my prostate with your tongue." Sam had opened his mouth wider, lips pressed against that outer ring of muscle, and pushed his tongue in as far as it would go. He had no idea how Dean knew that that was what he was trying to do. "'S just not long enough." He groaned appreciatively at something Sam had done. "Sorry to disappoint you."

Sam pulled his tongue back and straightened up. Saliva dripped out of his mouth, and he licked his lips before wiping them on the back of his hand. "What about my dick?"

Dean made a show of leaning over and looking down at Sam's groin, then settled back with a grin. "Yeah, looks more than long enough to me. Why don't you give it a try?"

Sam used Dean's hips to pull himself up, eyeing his position and brain kicking itself into high gear as he tried to figure out how to get himself into the opening he'd just spent the last five minutes licking. Having sex on a chair wasn't an easy thing to do. Especially if that chair was one of the flimsy little things that came out of Sam's kitchen.

"I could lay on the floor if you want," Dean volunteered, apparently noticing that Sam couldn't really decide what to do.

"No, no, that wouldn't be…comfortable," Sam said, shaking his head. "For either of us."

"Well, you're not gonna let me out, so this and the floor are really your only two options," Dean pointed out. Sam hesitated, thinking about it, then decided that he just couldn't wrap his head around having sex in a chair.

"We'd better do the floor," he said. It felt like admitting defeat.

"Fine with me," Dean said, slipping out of the chair and spreading himself out. Sam could see him much better now, and he swallowed reflexively. He felt like he was looking at the centerfold of a really classy skin mag. "Get down here." When Sam shifted his weight from one foot to the other, unsure of where, exactly, he should be, Dean sighed a little. "C'mon, Sam, I'll tell you what to do. I've done this a  _million_  times before."

"Isn't that a surprise," Sam said. Under Dean's instruction, he knelt down, straddled his thighs, put his hands on his shoulders to steady himself, lowered his hips slightly, moved forward, and…just slipped in. He was warm and wet and tight around his cock, even though Dean had felt relatively loose around his tongue.

"Oh, yeaaah, Sammy, that's it," Dean groaned, smiling up at him. He was starting to pant with pleasure. "Fuckin' huge cock, love the way you feel in me."

Sam blushed violently, having to look away from Dean. Dirty talk wasn't something that he was used to, and he had no idea how to respond. He squeezed the firm flesh of Dean's shoulders, reassuring himself with the feeling of warm skin against his fingers, then began to move. It was a little awkward until Dean bent his legs, lifting his hips up to give Sam a better angle. Things went smoothly after that; it practically felt like they'd been made to fit together like this, Sam thought as pleasure throbbed through his brain.

Dean grunted, and the muscles in his throat jumped as his hands came up and he grabbed onto Sam's hips. Sam watched his body move under him as he rolled his hips rhythmically, sweat slowly beginning to shine on the freckled skin even though it was pretty cool in the cell. He felt around for his prostate with the head of his cock, biting the inside of his lower lip in concentration. He didn't know what it felt like, since he'd never been inside another guy before. But when he hit a hot, firm lump dead-on, sliding rapidly over it, and Dean threw his head back and yelled with a rough voice, he figured that he'd found it.

Sam knew that he'd just recently had a blowjob and come pretty powerfully from it. But actual sex was a lot different from oral, satisfied a whole other set of urges, and he knew he wasn't going to last when he wasn't more than a few minutes in. Dean felt too good. Maybe there was something about the emotional aspect of making love to him, too.

He wasn't about to finish in the first five minutes and leave Dean hanging, though. He obviously needed this a lot more than Sam did, considering the kind of day he'd had (which had been entirely Sam's fault, he remembered with another stab of guilt). He reached down between their rolling bodies with one hand, and wrapped it around Dean's length. The heavy solidity of it sent a shock through him; it'd been a while since he'd held any cock but his own.

Dean twitched a little at his touch. His eyes were closed, Sam realized as he looked down at him, and his face was placid. It only took him a second to realize that he was remembering again.

"First time it was in the bed of a pickup, out in the scrapyard," Dean murmured. The words were short with the exertion of sex. "I'd laid a quilt down earlier. We were both drunk." Sam started moving his hand on his cock, and Dean stalled himself with a groan. "That was when I was still going to the high school. Sometimes."

Sam didn't say anything in response. Just lowered his mouth down to Dean's, using the one hand that he still had on his shoulder to make sure that he didn't collapse on top of him. Even so, the muscles of his stomach and thighs burned with the effort of keeping himself upright and thrusting. Dean kissed back, then gave his hips as much of a buck as he could manage with his hips already up in the air. It sent him sliding down onto Sam's shaft and up into Sam's hand.

"Yeah, I get it," Dean said breathlessly, grinning up at Sam when he pulled away. "I'm with you now, and I love you. You're something more special than you know."

Sam couldn't help but wonder just how long it'd been since Dean himself had last had sex, because he hit his climax in the next second. So Sam figured it was okay to stop holding back, and spilled his release inside of the demon as sticky white ropes painted themselves across his stomach and hand. As he kept thrusting through it, one thought stood out clearly in the fireworks show that was his brain: if Dean just coaxed him into sex every time he brought up closing the Gates of Hell, he'd never found out what that final task was.


	20. Chapter Twenty

_I guess that everybody gets worried, sometimes, that something's going to come after them. In this line of work, I mean. But maybe police officers are afraid of the friends or family of people they've put away tracking them down. Or maybe soldiers are like that with the people they've killed. I'm off-topic. It's two in the morning, I can't sleep, and I've fried my brain with caffeine and electric light. Which, come to think of it, might be part of the reason I can't sleep._

_I hear about it all the time. Hunter kills what he thinks is a lone vampire (they're not extinct, Garth is insane), the nest catches up to him a few months later and tears him to pieces. Hunter gets rid of a ghoul terrorizing a town and then gets eaten by its offspring ten years in the future, when they're mature enough to start changing shape. Hunter, busy, teaches a few amateurs how to exorcise a weak demon. It guts him the next time it makes its way out of the Pit._

_It's just one of the millions of risks that you have to accept when you start hunting. I've talked to people whose kills number in the thousands, who just aren't that concerned about maybe being hunted down for revenge. They seem to just figure that if it happens, it happens, and they're going to die someday anyway. They're obviously in a much better place than I am, mentally, because I'm not even a real hunter and I'm way more paranoid._

_I've performed a lot of torture. More importantly, I've learned a lot. Five years ago, there were a ton of monsters out there with secret weaknesses that they guarded very closely and only one or two seasoned hunters knew about. But now I've exposed dozens of those weaknesses, put them in books and online, and made sure that every idiot with a shotgun full of salt knows exactly how to kill these things. I guess I'm safe here, but if they ever decided to launch a full-scale attack, maybe some of them would get through._

-  _Personal journal of Sam Winchester_

* * *

The shards of concrete and the dust that had fallen off of them made a small, ankle-high pile in front of the doorway, haphazard and messy-looking. Sam let go of his crowbar as the little particles in the air began to settle, leaning it up against the wall. He stretched a hand through the doorway, palm up. Dean took it. Sam winced, watching him walk barefoot over the pile of concrete chips with his boots dangling from his free hand, but it really didn't seem to hurt him.

He stopped and hesitated, toes touching the metal threshold of the cell. Which had to hurt, since it was made of iron. The cement crunched under him and Sam winced again.

"What're you waiting for?" he asked, tugging on his hand a little to encourage him to keep moving.

"This was a  _really_  stupid move," Dean replied. "Not every demon is as warm and cuddly as I am. What if you've gotta put one of them away?"

"I'll use a devil's trap," Sam replied. "Which reminds me. I've gotta take care of the ones in front of the doors."

"Yeah, okay. I guess that'll work," Dean conceded. "Second thing, though. Before I come out." Their clothes were rolled up into a bundle under his arm, and he adjusted it so that it wouldn't fall into the dust. "Are you sure about this?"

Sam stared at Dean, not afraid to make eye contact. He looked completely serious. And maybe a little concerned, too, which Sam could understand. This was kind of a big step. Especially given how the two of them had acted towards each other when Dean had first been delivered to Sam. But despite that understanding, he still asked, "You're kidding, right?"

"Hey. Look, Sammy." Dean let go of Sam's hand so he could raise both of his own in a placating gesture. "All I know is that you and me had sex, and I hadn't even stopped seeing stars when you went got a freaking crowbar outta your umbrella stand and started smashing up my floor. Naked." He shrugged. "I'm sorry, but the whole thing just kinda screams 'impulsive' to me. And maybe 'insane,' too. Did fucking me break your brain or something?"

"No," Sam snapped. He didn't really appreciate being called crazy by the guy whose ass he'd just shot his load into. Mostly because the act had been a lot more tender and meaningful than those terms suggested. "I…of course I'm sure, Dean. We just…" He trailed off. He got the feeling that the demon would make fun of him if he said "made love," but saying anything else would cheapen what they had just done.

"Knocked boots," Dean supplied. He must not have had the same problem. "Figuratively, I mean. Since you're a filthy savage who runs around barefoot all the time and I took mine off." He raised a hand and put it on the left side of his chest, making his eyes big and soulful as he did so. "Can that bleeding heart of yours just not  _stand_  the thought of locking up somebody you just fucked into the floor of your creepy cell?"

"So sex means something to me," Sam replied, starting to get frustrated. "That a crime?"

"No, no, I get you," Dean assured with a shake of his head. "My first time was special, too."

"It wasn't  _really_  – " It was his first time going all the way with another guy, but it wasn't his first time having sex. Sam abruptly decided to give up on explaining that to Dean, though. It wasn't worth it. "Never mind." He shook his own head, hair flopping softly. "I know I'm sure about letting you out of here. There's nothing I can do to take it back, is there? The Circle's broken – it's ruined." And the salt was scattered, and he was sure that the devil's trap and the sigils on the walls and the doorframe wouldn't hold Dean for long. Hesitantly, Sam held out his hand to Dean again. "Yeah. I want you out because I had sex with you. But that's not the only reason. It's just the latest one."

Dean took his hand, grip firm and blazing with warmth that Sam still couldn't get over, and this time, he left the cell without stopping once. Nothing seemed to hold him back at all. Almost as soon as he was out, the bracelets of the handcuffs on his wrists  _clack_ ed open and fell to the ground. Sam let go of him after that, but Dean surprised him by dropping his boots and their clothes on top of the cuffs and pulling him into a deliciously tight hug. Sam's eyes fell closed as Dean nuzzled into his hair.

"Meant a lot to me, too." He mumbled it out, even though there was no one around who could possibly hear him but Sam. "Didn't you wonder why I was saying all those girly things?"

"I guess I kinda just assumed that that was what you did during sex," Sam replied, and grinned when Dean pretty much snorted into his ear.

"Maybe  _you_  do," he said defiantly. "You're a pussy like that." He stopped hugging Sam but didn't let go of him, taking hold of one of his hands as he bet down to pick their stuff back up. "C'mon. Let's go get cleaned up. And then I guess I better feed you something. How many times a day do you eat?"

"Uh, three, usually," Sam replied, taken aback by the question until he remembered that Dean hadn't been human for, from his perspective, over three thousand years. That was more than enough time to forget something as trivial as how many times a day a living person needed to eat. "I need to get rid of those devil's traps before we take a shower, though."

"You don't have to worry about 'em," Dean replied, shaking his head. "I'm a Knight. Ordinary devil's traps don't bother me unless I physically walk into them – and even then not for very long. I can teleport over them just fine." He cleared his throat. "Not outta them, though. And Circles of Solomon still trip me up no matter what."

Right, he could teleport now. Because Sam had let him out. "That's pretty useful."

Dean grinned, and then hot water hit Sam in the face. He blinked and gasped in shock, turning instinctively away from the spray, and pulled his hand out of Dean's in order to wipe his heavy, wet hair out of his eyes. As soon as he could see, he was greeted by pale beige tiles and grout that was getting a little too mildew for its own good. He stretched out his left hand, and met the smooth, warm glass of a frosted door. He was in his shower, and the water that was currently pounding into his upper back was the  _perfect_  temperature.

"Never been teleported before?" Dean asked cheerfully. Sam could hear him smiling.

"Of course not," Sam replied. He couldn't do it himself and he'd never met anything he'd feel good about letting do it for him. Demons, angels, deities, demigods, witches – not exactly trustworthy types.

"Well, trust me, it's way easier with me than it'd be with an angel," Dena told him. "Crazy shit comes off their wings when they're flying. It'd really screw you up – especially your plumbing, if you know what I mean." Sam heard him smacking his own stomach. He turned around to look at him through a mist of steam and spraying water.

"I needed to know that," he replied, reaching for the bottle of shampoo that he'd used to share with Vaughn. "Lemme wash your hair. It's gross."

Dean did, dipping his head to make it easier for him even though Sam was tall enough not to need it. As soon as his short hair had been lathered and rinsed four times, the suds finally coming out white and clean on that last one, he returned the favor. He was a little confused at first by all the different types of soap and conditioner, but he seemed to have no trouble at all remembering how to wash someone. He held Sam against him, back to chest, with one arm wrapped around him at shoulder level, and used the other hand to gentle and slowly scrub his torso down with a soapy washcloth. Hot water poured down them the whole time.

Sam felt like a little kid, having somebody else wash him like this, but that wasn't necessarily a bad thing. He was being taken care of. He felt really, truly safe, for the first time in…well, seven years, probably. He tipped his head forward as Dean started on his hair, closing his eyes tightly so that he could avoid having soap run into them.

"Hey, Sammy," Dean spoke up all of a sudden. He had to raise his voice to be heard above the noise that the shower was making. His hand didn't stop moving in the soapy mass of Sam's hair, so Sam didn't open his eyes.

"Yeah?" he asked, chancing a mouthful of water. It didn't taste like shampoo – success.

"Look, I…I'm sorry I wouldn't tell you about the Trials." His fingernails scraped gently against Sam's scalp. "That's what they're called. The things you've gotta do to close the Gates. The Trials."

Sam turned his head to the side. He still didn't open his eyes, but now Dean could see half of his face, and he could talk directly to him.

"Could you tell me what the last one is now?" he asked quietly. Not too quietly, though. Dean wouldn't have been able to hear him otherwise. "The one you said was impossible?"

Dean hesitated, then sighed, and Sam felt him shake his head as he told him, "I'd really rather not, Sam."

Sam couldn't stop the little twinge of frustration that reverberated through him at Dean's answer. He knew that it was selfish of him. Or more than selfish, actually, since he'd just barely bullied Dean into participating into a memory spell that had practically given him a nervous breakdown. He should be content with the fact that Dean knew who he was now. If he said that the last of the Trials was impossible, then it probably was. Sam should leave it alone.

But he felt his mouth opening anyway, and realized (with a sense of dismay) that he was about to start whining. Then, though, sudden insight knocked into place in his head, shutting him up before he could even take a steam-filled breath.

"They came after you because you knew how to do it," he said, mostly just thinking out loud. Dean stopped scrubbing his hair and just let the water rinse it clean. "Are you trying to protect me? D'you think it'll put a target on my back if I know how to close the Gates?"

"Uh, no, I'm pretty sure you've already got a target on your back, Sam," Dean replied. He swept Sam's wet hair up and out of his face with one easy movement, and Sam opened his eyes so that he could look at them. "I'm not trying to protect you. You've already got a shitload of dirt on demons and Knights and Hell and everything else like that – how could a little more information possibly make it worse?" He picked up the conditioner that Sam had pointed out to him earlier. The bottle, almost empty, squelched obnoxiously when he squeezed some out into his hand; Sam would have to put that on Garth's list later. "You're a huge threat. I've heard your name before, from the dumb grunts that Alastair has me commanding. The demons would've taken you out even before you ever met me – if they just could've figured out how to get to you."

Wasn't that comforting. Before horror and panic could set in at that information, Sam pointed out, "My wards'd gotten pretty weak."

"Strong enough to keep most out," Dean replied. "The team that came for me had a hell of a time getting in as it was." He smirked. "And you've got a pretty badass bodyguard now. Nothing to worry about."

Sam snorted, but really, Dean was probably the best security measure he could possibly have. As a demon, sure, he was vulnerable to a lot of stuff, but as a Knight of Hell, he was also extremely tough and very powerful. Sam would like to see a ghoul or a werewolf try to get past him.

"So. I can tell that you're about thirty seconds away from getting that thing about the Gates back in your head," Dean said, breaking Sam out of his thoughts. "And then you're gonna start pestering me about it again, I can just hear you now." Dean let his voice jump a few octaves, into a ridiculous falsetto. "'Oh, Dean, if you're not trying to protect me, then  _of course_  you can tell me what the last Trial is!'"

"I don't sound like that!" Sam snapped, embarrassed. He wondered if Dean had a seemingly-constant need to interrupt every tender moment they had by making fun of him because he was a demon, or if he'd just been a jerk back when he was human, too.

"Okay, fine, you don't sound like that," Dean easily conceded. "But I'm still not gonna tell you what the last Trial is. Or the first two, for that matter. So don't even bother asking." He shook his head, and suddenly looked tired as the hot water sprayed across his face. Old, too, much older than his physical twenty-eight years. "I just don't wanna talk about it, Sam. I don't wanna think about what happened to me because of what I tried to do. Maybe I'd let you ask me about it if I thought that there was some way for it to work, and if I knew that having you finish all of what you needed to do wouldn't rip me away from you." He reached over and shut the water off. Sam let him, since they were both clean now. "But I don't know that. So I won't tell you."

As far as explanations went, Sam had to admit that that was a pretty good one. He pushed open the door and stepped out of the tiled cubicle, water pattering off of his body and onto the floor as he reached for a couple of towels. He handed one to Dean after pulling them off their rack.

"And I don't want you to get hurt, either," Dean added, knotting the towel loosely around his hips after a cursory wipe of his entire body. His damp skin glistened in the midafternoon sunlight coming in through the bathroom's small window. "Those Trials were tough. Physically, I mean. They took a lot outta me, and I was in perfect physical shape. You, on the other hand…" He gestured vaguely to Sam's bad leg. Since he was wearing nothing but a towel, the heavy scarring and wasted muscle of his calf was fully visible.

"So you won't tell me how to close the Gates of Hell because I'm crippled," Sam summarized. He would have folded his arms over his chest, if he hadn't been holding his towel up with both hands.

"Yeah, that's one of the reasons," Dean agreed readily. "You're not gonna guilt this outta me. I have absolutely no conscience."

"You're a real jerk," Sam told him.

"Well, you're kind of a bitch," Dean replied. "Guess we even each other out, right?"

They dressed. Sam's clothes were still a little too big on Dean, but not ridiculously so. Then Dean herded him into the kitchen and made him eat while their hair dried from the shower. A ham sandwich, two apples, and a tall glass of ice water – Dean was very adamant that he get enough to eat, and that it all be good food. He seemed to be taking the idea of looking after his human lover very seriously, and Sam could hardly complain. It was probably good for him to have a babysitter.

Once he'd eaten, Dean took him back to the bedroom and commanded him to take his pants off. Thinking that he wanted to have sex again, Sam obeyed reluctantly (he was tired), but it turned out that that wasn't what he had in mind. He somehow found Sam's lotion, then they sat on his bed with Sam's leg in Dean's lap, and he spent the next ninety minutes massaging the pain and tension out of the heavily damaged area.

"You should get some of that stuff that gets, like, hot when you start rubbing it on," Dean said. "I saw a commercial for it. That'd be real good."

"Thought about it," Sam said drowsily. This might actually feel better than the sex had.

"Wish you had a bathtub," Dean went on. "Or a hot tub. Somewhere you could soak this – I think that that'd help you a lot."

"Welp," Sam replied, "hate to break it to you, but I'm probably not gonna get either of those anytime soon."

"Yeah, I didn't think so," Dean replied. "You little masochist, you." He fell silent for a while, concentrating on something up by Sam's knee. It hurt when he dug his fingers into it, prompting a breathless little gasp from Sam, but he forgave him for it fairly quickly, because it felt  _so_  good when it relaxed away into nothing. "Christ, Sam, you're tighter than a pair of goddamn skinny jeans down in here…this is why it hurts so bad."

"When did you become a physical therapist?" Sam asked, shaking his head back and forth on the pillow that supported it.

"Lotta wounded in Hell," Dean replied neutrally, and Sam decided that he probably shouldn't try to press him into elaborating on that.

By the time that Dean finally decided that he was done with his leg, Sam was a warm puddle of sleepiness and contentment. He didn't object at all when Dean maneuvered him under the covers of his bed and then basically tucked him in. He kept his eyes closed as a callused hand swept gently over his hair and smoothed it back.

"You get some rest," Dean murmured to him. "Kind of been a big day for both of us. I'll keep watch, don't worry. You'll be safe."


	21. Chapter 21

_There are a lot of people out there I can get along with just fine, regardless of race, age, gender, culture, native language, sexual orientation, political stance, sense of humor, taste in entertainment, or hunting style. I'd like to think that I'm a pretty friendly guy, and that the people who talk to me are generally decent underneath all the quirky little facets of their personalities. If I'm talking to somebody and it turns out that we don't see eye to eye on a certain issue, I'll usually keep my mouth shut about it. Usually. If it's nothing hugely important._

_There's only one guy I've ever met who consistently rubs me the wrong way. I just can't stand him. Every other thing that comes out of his mouth is just so_ wrong  _that I can't stand to let it go. It's Gordon. Of course it's Gordon. How many times have I bitched about Gordon in here? To Garth? To Charlie and Ash and Jo and whatever monsters happen to be in my cells at that time?_

_Gordon is legitimately a psychopath. Yeah, I know, I know, you could make the argument that every single one of us in this business has psychopathic tendencies, but I'm not talking about tendencies when it comes to Gordon. He's full-blown. He's the real thing. I've never met anybody before who took so much pleasure in the act of killing. The act of torture, even. Garth told me, once that sometimes he laughs while he's doing it, and let me just tell you right now that I don't doubt it for a second. Even coming from Garth._

_His hate for the things that we're fighting against goes way beyond anything I've ever felt myself, or anything that anybody else has ever felt, I think. It's insane. If he stumbles across a monster, it doesn't matter if it's hurting people or not, or if it's ever hurt people. He'll slaughter it just for what it is. I know that he hates bringing live captives to me because he thinks that they're not going to get what they deserve. Feeding them is too lenient. My experiments aren't harsh or painful enough. They're not even alive when I cut into them to take a look at what they're made of. If Gordon were running things, my cabin would look like Josef fucking Mengele's laboratory._

_It was his sister that got him into it. Hunting, I mean. She got turned and taken away by a vampire when he was much younger, and it took him years to track her down. What do you think he did when he found her? Tried to cure her? No. Weaned her onto animal blood so she wouldn't have to hunt human beings anymore? Of course not. He killed her. He didn't even have someone do the actual deed for him – he decapitated his little sister himself. And if that doesn't prove that Gordon has ice water in his veins and a pile of razor blades where his soul should be, then I don't know what does._

-  _Personal journal of Sam Winchester_

* * *

Dean was perched on the railing of Sam's porch when he came outside with a mug of coffee in his hand, eyes closed and face turned up towards the sun. A light breeze, sweet with the scents of pine and damp earth, wafted past them, the needles of the trees rattling. Dean's hair wasn't nearly long enough for the wind to move it, but his loose T-shirt at least fluttered around his midsection.

"Don't get sunburned," Sam told him, sitting down on the sagging steps and being careful not to get any splinters in his bare feet.

"I freckle," Dean replied without opening his eyes. "Though, actually, maybe I don't, anymore. I don't age. My hair doesn't grow. Why would the sun do anything to me?"

Sam wasn't really sure how to respond to that. He could have told Dean that there were a whole lot of people out there who'd give literally anything to stop aging at twenty-eight, but he wasn't sure how much that would comfort him. Since Dean himself had given literally everything for it.

"Thanks for the coffee," he said instead, raising his mug as he changed the subject. The coffeemaker had been percolating when he got up this morning. And Dean had been gone, which had freaked the hell out of him (pun completely intended) until he'd glanced out the window and seen him sunning himself on the porch. "It's really good."

"I mixed cinnamon and vanilla into the grounds before I put 'em in," Dean replied. His eyes were still closed. "Pretty much the only spices you have that aren't expired, by the way." Now he opened his eyes, turning to smile down at Sam. "I've forgotten a lot of things, but I still know how to make kickass coffee."

"I'll say." Sam took a sip. By the smell, Dean could have mixed in fresh angel tears, and the taste was even better. Amazing how good a little cinnamon and vanilla could make things. "D'you want me to go get you a cup?"

Face turned back to the sun, Dean shook his head.

"You sure?"

"Wouldn't be able to taste it," Dean replied. "There must be something about taste that the soul's involved in, 'cause everything's dirt and ash to me now. No matter what I'm eating or what vessel I'm in."

So it wasn't just that he didn't need to eat – he couldn't. There was no enjoyment in it for him. Sam had never asked any other demons about their sense of taste before, so maybe food was okay for some of them. But not Dean.

"Sorry," he murmured, staring down into the mug that he was cupping in both hands.

"Is it your fault?" Dean asked, a little sarcastically. "Don't apologize. I might've been able to taste coffee before, but I couldn't rip a tree outta the ground with my mind, so…" He shrugged. "Even trade, I think."

Sam looked up at him, rhythmically sipping from the mug of coffee, and commented, "That railing is almost completely rotten."

"Yep," Dean agreed.

They sat in silence for a while. Relative silence, anyway. Dean bullied Sam back inside to get more for breakfast than just coffee, and glared at him, begrudgingly, when he came back out with two slices of toast. They had peanut butter on them, and Sam was pretty sure that that was the only reason that the demon didn't throw a real fit. But they didn't talk for a long time after Sam had sat back down. He ate his toast and Dean soaked up the sun and the wind, and it was a more comfortable silence than Sam had known in years.

"Feels nice to be outside," Dean spoke up out of the blue, a few minutes after Sam had finished eating. Sam nodded, looking at him.

"Yeah. I bet," he agreed. He realized that Dean hadn't been outside, able to see the sky, since Gordon had dragged him from his car to the cabin. "You…like this?" He gestured vaguely, encompassing everything around them. Dean glanced down at him.

"Yeah," he replied. "We all do." He looked out into the forest again. "No one likes Hell, Sam. Mole tunnels made outta rock. Everything's covered in ash and sulfur. Sometimes there's fire, and sometimes there's blood, and sometimes the whole place… _thumps_ , like you're inside a giant heart. That's the level that most of us end up on. Even me." He fell quiet. Sam tried to quell the urge to note down what Hell had been like for Dean. "And then there's demons everywhere, of course. And they're real shitty company."

He shot a grin at Sam who, tentatively, returned it. And then, suddenly, he was off the railing, and standing twenty feet away from the cabin. The railing creaked as Dean's weight suddenly vanished from it. His back, ramrod straight, was turned to Sam.

"Dean?" Sam slowly rose to his feet, empty mug dangling from the fingers of one hand. Something was obviously wrong, and he didn't want to move too fast. Was this Dean's reaction to remembering Hell?

Dean glanced over his shoulder, then turned back. Sam's heart beat nervously in his chest for almost a full minute, then got really close to exploding out of his ribcage when Dean suddenly popped into existence right in front of him.

"Fuck – " he started to yell.

"There's something out there," Dean interrupted, talking over him as he grabbed his non-mug-holding hand and squeezed it tightly.

 _"_ _Don't,"_  Sam snapped, breathing hard. "You're as bad as a fucking – " His brain caught up to what Dean had just said. "What d'you mean, there's something out there?"

"There's something out there," Dean repeated. "In your forest. I can feel it. I just barely felt it, actually."

"Well – " Sam shook his head, starting to get a little freaked out. "What is it?"

"I can't tell," Dean replied. "You have got  _so much_  iron and salt around here, Sam, and crazy sigils – it's messing with my senses. Think of, like, uh…a dog trying to track somebody through a slaughterhouse. There's too much interference."

"Okay," Sam said. It was daylight, which immediately eliminated a lot of really horrible things and made him feel a little better. Plus, he had a Knight of Hell to look out for him. Nothing to be afraid of. "Do you think you could find it?"

"I don't know. Maybe."

"Okay," Sam repeated, crouching to set down his mug. It was his last one without any cracks, so he didn't want to just drop it. "We're gonna go to the shed, and – "

He was cut off when the phone started ringing. He could hear it loud and clear, having left the front door of his cabin wide open. He glanced towards it, then stumbled up onto the porch when Dean shoved him in the general direction. His teeth gritted, the muscles of his jaw clamping, as he felt a long splinter slide neatly into the meat of his left foot.

"You go answer that," Dean instructed, apparently oblivious to Sam's pain. "Close the door. I'll go track down whatever it is that's running around out there and take care of it. Won't be gone long." He smiled, quickly. "Promise."

"No. Dean – " Sam grabbed for him, but his hand snapped closed on nothing but empty air. He overbalanced and had to snatch one of the support beams to keep himself from falling flat on his face. Another splinter stabbed into his palm. "Dean!"

A second after he yelled it out, furious, he realized that he'd probably just told Dean's monster exactly where he was. He limped inside, closing the door behind him. After a moment's hesitation, he locked it, too. Couldn't hurt.

The phone stopped ringing while Sam was picking his splinters out. He was about to breathe a sigh of relief when it started ringing again almost immediately. Muttering curses under his breath, he walked over to pick it up with his uninjured hand. "What is it?"

"Oh, I'm sorry. Am I interrupting something?" There was a cutting edge of sarcasm to Gordon's voice, one that came through loud and clear even over the phone.

Sam closed his eyes, slowly, and leaned heavily on the surface of his desk, where the phone's dock was. His leg suddenly began to throb and ache with apocalyptic pain, despite how thoroughly Dean had massaged it last night. Great. This was just  _exactly_  what he needed right now – exactly.

"Hi, Gordon," he said, because hanging up the phone without another word would probably just make things even worse than they already were.

"Hi," Gordon replied, without any hint of politeness to his tone. "I'm gonna go ahead and cut right to the chase here, Sam. Just uncovered a whole string of really important possession cases up and down the East Coast – we're in deep. Is the Knight dead?"

"Uh, no – "

"Exorcised, then?" Gordon demanded impatiently.

"I can't – find a ritual that works on him," Sam replied. Which was technically true. He just hadn't tried more than a few before getting distracted by other, more important things.

"God _dam_ mit, Sam!" There was a loud but muffled crash, like Gordon had just punched a hole through the nearest wall, and Sam flinched. His fuse must be even shorter than usual. Sam was glad that they weren't in the same room. Or even the same state, hopefully. "Do you  _want_  them to win?"

"Of course I don't!" Also true, just so long as "them" meant the demons that Gordon was fighting right now and didn't include Dean. "How the hell could you ask me something like that?"

"Then why haven't you gotten rid of the Knight?" Gordon asked, enunciating each word carefully and angrily. Like he thought he was speaking to an idiot – which, come to think of it, he probably did. "D'you have any idea how hard it's getting for us out here? What if there are a hundred of those things clawing their way up from the Pit as we speak? We won't stand a chance against 'em until you figure out how to hurt them."

"Yeah, I know – " Sam began, trying to defend himself as he peered out through all the window he could see in his current position. Nothing but trees and a few patches of blue sky; no sign of Dean or whatever he'd run off after.

"Have you been wasting time fucking around with that damn wraith again?" Gordon interrupted harshly. Sam put a hand on his forehead as all the guilt that Dean had been distracting him from came flooding back. It was like a freaking tsunami.

"No. No, I haven't, actually." Sam dragged a low, agonizing hand through his hair before clearing his throat. "He died a little while ago."

"Really?" Gordon's tone immediately swung from the angry end of the spectrum to interested. "Well, it's about damn time. What'd your dissection show? Any new weak spots that I should know about?"

"I didn't…" Sam rubbed his face, shaking his head even though he knew the gesture was lost on Gordon. "I didn't do a dissection."

On reflex, he looked out the window again. He still didn't see anything. Or hear anything. If something went wrong, then he'd hear screaming or something, right? He'd know if Dean needed his help?

"What d'you mean, you didn't do a dissection?" Gordon snapped. "That is part of your damn job, cutting up dead monsters. Who knows when you're gonna get another baby wraith?"

"Yeah, yeah, I know, I just – " Sam blew out a huge breath, wishing he were doing absolutely anything but this right now. "I get it. But I couldn't do it."

"You couldn't do it?" Gordon repeated, sounding incredulous. Sam imagined him slowly opening and closing the fist that he'd just driven into the wall, getting ready to punch something else. "Sam, I know you've got a Niagara Falls of a bleeding heart, but how many times do I have to remind you that this is your job? The only one you're good at! You couldn't do  _my_  job, with that lame leg."

"I know," Sam said wearily. Where was Dean?

Gordon paused for a few seconds. When he spoke again, Sam could tell that he was dead serious – and suspicious, too. Which immediately set off alarm bells in Sam's head.

"What the hell is going on there?" he asked.

"Nothing," Sam replied, before he could come up with a better answer.

"Well, obviously," Gordon responded acidly. "What I wanna know is what the hell's gotten into you to make all this  _nothing_  happen."

"Nothing," Sam repeated stupidly. He was too full of worry for Dean. Too full of fear and pain. He was a deer in Gordon's headlights.

"Maybe I should come up there and take a look at this 'nothing' myself," Gordon said, a dangerous note creeping into his voice. "Maybe all you need's somebody to straighten you out."

"Gordon, come on – " Sam started, finally feeling like he might have regained the ability to talk his way out of this, but Gordon cut him off.

"I need to know how to kill a Knight of Hell, Sam," he stated. "Or at least get rid of it for a while." He hung up.

A low, desperate growl rolled out of Sam's throat as he put his own phone back in its dock, the sound of a wounded and cornered animal. He smoothed his hair back, away from his face, hard, with both hands, then turned away from his desk and paced into the kitchen. He didn't need anything; his movements were aimless. He was just walking, moving in order to try and help himself figure it all out. He couldn't see any way he could possibly do that, but maybe something would come to him. Before Gordon got here.

He still wasn't used to teleportation, either going along for the ride or watching it happen. So it sent his adrenaline levels straight through the roof when a blood-covered figure appeared in the middle of the room. There was a brief moment of pure, mindless panic (in which Sam found himself reaching for the nearest weapon – a heavy cast-iron skillet hanging on the wall underneath his cabinets) before he recognized Dean under the slick coating of glistening red.

Sam felt his mouth drop open as Dean glanced around the room, eyes, mercifully green, finally coming to rest on him. As uncontrollably as kicking after being hit in the knee, he blurted out, "Oh, my  _god_  – "

"None of it's mine," Dean hastily assured, raising both sticky hands. He wasn't completely covered, Sam realized. Just his arms up to the elbows. And his shirt. And his jeans. And a little splatter on his face, like a secondary set of bright crimson freckles.

"Aauhh…" Sam made a noise as he scrambled for words. He'd been out of the hunting game for years, and hadn't had to deal with anything more unexpected than his monsters trying to break out of their cells since. This was too much. "Jee – Jesus Christ, Dean!" He smoothed his hair back from his face again, pulling on it a little too hard in his stress. About a dozen brunette strands floated to the floor and stuck to his sweaty hands. "What'd you  _do_?!"

"I found it," Dean began, lowering his hands. "The thing that I sensed out there. A group of 'em, actually."

"And then you, what?" Sam demanded, shaking his head. "Took a bath in them?"

"Tore 'em apart, actually," Dean replied, sounding pretty proud of himself as he folded his arms over his chest. Sam's nose wrinkled, automatically, as the coppery smell of blood hit him. It was mixed with rotten eggs, which was just vile, and – rotten eggs. Sulfur.

Awesome.

"They were demons?" he asked, stomach sinking like he'd just swallowed a pound of lead. Dean's eyebrows rose with obvious surprise.

"Uh, yeah," he said, nodding slowly. "They were, actually. And I've got good news and bad news about them."

Sam blew out a heavy breath, closing his eyes for a second to gather up his scattered, frayed thoughts. "Good news first, I guess." He reached up to scrub a hand under his nose. "And, dude, please go take a shower. The smell's making me feel sick."

"Wuss," Dean replied, then sobered, licking his lips before he continued. Sam wished he wouldn't. There was blood on them. "I killed three. I – I can do that, as a Knight. It's just a whole lot tougher for me than it would be for, say, an angel. And I gotta rip up the vessels to do it, which Alastair told me I won't have to do in another hundred years or so…"

He was rambling. The bad news must be really bad, if he'd brought up Alastair in order to avoid telling him what it was; Sam got the feeling that he didn't feel very warmly towards the demon who had tortured him in Hell.

"So, you killed three," Sam prompted. "Awesome. What's the bad news?"

Dean looked at him, and sighed heavily before admitting, "There were four of them."

"So one got away," Sam concluded. The heavy feeling in his stomach was back.

"Yeah," Dean replied, looking like he'd drunk about a gallon of vinegar. "I couldn't go after him. Which means that everybody back home is gonna know that I've gone off the reservation. I'm outta your trap, I'm killing demons – they're not gonna be happy."

"Uh, no, probably not," Sam agreed, chewing on the inside of his lower lip once he was finished talking.

"How're we gonna deal with this?" Dean asked him, shrugging jerkily. Sam just shook his head, feeling more helpless than he had since he'd woken up in the hospital and they'd tried to teach him how to use the wheelchair. "Okay. Uhhh…" He glanced towards the bathroom. "I'm gonna go shower?" He jabbed a thumb over his shoulder. "We can talk about this later."

"Okay," Sam said. It'd probably be a better idea to figure it all out now, but he agreed anyway.

"You should go lay down, Sam," Dean told him seriously. "You don't look good."

"Okay," Sam repeated. He didn't do it, though, until he'd taken Dean's bloody clothes outside and set fire to them. As they burned, he looked out towards the forest, thinking about the three dismembered bodies left lying around out there. He doubted Dean had buried them. Which meant he'd have to find them and take care of them. But not right now. He couldn't do it. His own weakness depressed him, but he didn't know how to fix it. Just like everything else that was going wrong right now.

Dean's advice had been sound – laying down in his room, darkened by the shades over the window and the partially-closed door, helped him. Slowed down his breathing and heart rate, anyway. His eyes were closed and he was sprawled out over his pillows and tangled blankets when he heard the door creak open and bare feet pad across his rugs. He threw a forearm over his eyes and groaned.

"No," he commanded. "Go away."

"If we're not gonna talk about the giant demon army that's probably bearing down on us right now," Dean replied as he climbed onto Sam's bed, "then I can at least stop you from wallowing in…whatever you're feeling right now."

"'S that what I'm doing?" Sam mumbled.

"Uh, yeah." The mattress creaked. "Trust me, I have seen a  _lot_  of wallowing. Not much else to do when the Marquis that they've assigned to you is outta the room." He lowered his head. Plump lips brushed against Sam's forearm. "So I'm an expert. And I'm pretty sure that the funk that you're in can be fully cured with sex."

"I don't wanna have sex right now, Dean," Sam replied. He heard Dean snort above him.

"The hell you don't," he responded. "You're human, and you're a guy. You want sex every three seconds." He grabbed Sam's hand and moved his arm down in order to expose his closed eyes. "Or maybe you think about it. Whatever. Same difference."

Sam opened his eyes and squinted up at Dean. His face was in shadow and his hair was damp and scrubby, but his eyes were bright. And his lips. His lips stood out.

"Who called?" Dean asked, voice soft and husky like a purr.

"Gordon," Sam replied, and something vindictive suddenly rose up in him. He wanted Dean to understand, like he did, that things were completely hopeless. There were too many disasters converging at once. "He knows that something's going on with me. He's going to come up here to try and find out what it is." He closed his eyes again. "He wants to get me back on track so that I can figure out how to kill you."

There was a beat of silence, as Dean took that in. Then he suggested, "Maybe he and the demons will cancel each other out."

"Wouldn't that be great." Sam rolled onto his stomach and smashed his face into a pillow. He couldn't breathe. He didn't care.

"…okay." Dean heaved out a huge sigh, still above him. Probably straddling him, since he suddenly sat on his thighs. Sam grunted, mouth closed, when Dean took a handful of his hair and hauled his head up. "There. You got to throw your tantrum. You got to snap at me. You got to lay in your dark room for a while. Seems like a pretty pathetic way of freaking out to me, but, y'know, hey, if it works for you…"

Dean was very warm from the shower. And naked. Sam could easily tell both, even through his jeans. He bucked, trying to get him off.

"Leave me alone," he said. Or demanded, really. Even though he suspected that the tone wouldn't make much of a difference to Dean. "Just – lemme rest, okay? My leg's killing me."

Dean snorted derisively. Sam, offended, opened his eyes, made a face, and rolled over. He cried out a little startled, when Dean covered his face with one of his hands, calluses catching on last night's stubble.

"No, no," Dean declared authoritatively, as Sam reached up and started pulling on his wrist. His hand was only resting lightly on his face, not squashing his nose or anything, but it didn't so much as budge, even as Sam's biceps bulged and strained. "No bitchface. And no bullshit, either. You need to cut that right now." He took his hand away. Sam had a strong urge to spit in his face, but quelled it. "I can't even believe that you'd use your leg as an excuse like that. Haven't you spent the past seven years or whatever trying to prove that you're still useful even though a wendigo took a chunk outta you?"

Sam didn't answer. His leg actually did hurt. And both demons and Gordon were coming for him – it was a great opportunity to feel sorry for himself, which was an indulgence he hadn't allowed for years.

"Stop acting like a damn five-year-old, Sam." Dean pushed himself up, turned, and ripped the curtains open. Late morning sunlight poured in, lighting him up like a marble statue.

"You're  _naked_ ," Sam hissed, the words tumbling out on reflex.

"Who's gonna see me?" Dean replied. "The deer? You've got it made up here – I might just walk around naked all the time from now on."

Sam didn't want to be interested in the image that that produced, but he felt himself twitch anyway. Dean looked back down and grinned.

"I felt that," he said. "Anyway. This whole 'despair' thing doesn't look good on you, Sammy." He reached down with both hands, and Sam felt him arranging his hair around his face. "You're a lot stronger than this. You killed a banshee, and a djinn. You tamed a freaking Knight of Hell – and I heard you bitching Gordon out more than once. If you can do that, then you can dupe him and ship him outta here in five minutes whenever he decides to show up. And then we can deal with the demons." He finished with Sam's hair, putting his hands on his own thighs and squeezing them. "One thing at a time, though."

Sam made a face again. What Dean had called a "bitchface."

"I never get to give up," he complained, letting a note of whininess slip in on a whim. "Can't I give up just this once?"

"Not until you're a pile of ash," Dean replied. "And even then, I'll probably find a way to haul your ass back so I can keep making you do stuff that you don't want to."

"Of course you will." Groaning softly, Sam pushed himself up into a sitting position, which put him almost exactly nose-to-nose with Dean. "Okay. So." He wanted to draw his legs up and fold them, but he couldn't with Dean sitting on them. His hamstrings had started to burn pleasantly. "Let's do this. Let's come up with a plan."

"Nope. Not yet," Dean replied, shaking his head. "First, we're gonna have sex. I think we could both use the stress relief.  _Then_  we're gonna come up with a plan." He grinned. "Good idea, right?"

"Sounds good to me, at least." Sam laid back down. Somehow, he felt better aobut everything, he realized as Dean's hands slid up under his T-shirt. "So…d'you wanna…?"

"Top?" Dean supplied as Sam trailed off. "Yeah, I think I'd better." He leaned down, pressed a kiss to his neck. Sam tipped his head back with a soft sigh. "I think you need it."

Sam stayed quiet, neither agreeing nor disagreeing, and let Dean take his clothes off. First his shirt, then his jeans, and finally his boxers. As he tugged those down over his feet, he grabbed his ruined calf, and rubbed it firmly, warming and loosening the muscles there.

"We'll talk about our plan while I work on your leg," Dean said, his voice soft. "You gotta take better care of it, Sam. Can't let yourself get so tense."

"Not like I'm under any kinda stress or anything," Sam mumbled, eyes closed, and Dean chuckled.

Sam's lube wasn't difficult to find, in the top drawer of his bedside table, so he didn't even have to direct Dean to it. He didn't have to tell him that he'd never been penetrated, either; Dean seemed to already know. He was gentle, spending half an hour working him open with slow, slick fingers and soft praise. Sam had no trouble relaxing. He shuddered with a mixture of pleasure and trepidation when Dean entered him, huge and hot, but there wasn't anything to be afraid of. It didn't hurt. Actually, it felt pretty incredible, once they got going.

They rocked back and forth, slipping in and out of each other, the springs of the mattress creaking in rhythm with them. The sun was bright, beautiful. It lit up the whole room, picking out every freckle on Dean's skin, every golden highlight in his bronzy hair. Sam knew the cabin well enough to be sure that the window perfectly framed their lovemaking from the outside.

This was so much more comfortable than the chair. Partially because Dean was inside of Sam instead of it being the other way around, which just felt right. He hit his prostate and Sam moaned, feeling like someone had just swung a sledgehammer into the pleasure center of his brain. It felt good, it hurt. But even the pain was enjoyable, in a way.

He did a lot better this time, on holding himself back and lasting. Probably because he was more sexually satisfied, but he couldn't think about that as Dean started playing with his nipples, a low purr rumbling out of him as he did so. Sam gasped, back arching, which sent part of his body up towards Dean's warmth and the rest down into the softness of his bed. Sam thought about bringing up a hand to jerk himself off as Dean was fucking him, but rejected the idea almost as soon as he'd had it. The friction of their two flat, hard stomachs, both shadowed with the suggestion of abs, against his cock was more than enough.

Sam yelled Dean's name at the top of his lungs when he hit his climax, eyes clamping shut and hips bucking wildly. Why shouldn't he? It wasn't like anyone besides Dean himself was going to hear it. They were alone. Come hit his stomach and chest, dribbled across his hypersensitive skin before beginning to dry. As he came down from it, he had the pleasure of feeling Dean shoot his load inside of him, and reveling in the fact that a demon had just made mind-blowingly good love to him.

"Good thing you haven't showered yet," Dean rasped, as his own thrusts wound down into twitches and finally nothing at all.

Sam grunted his agreement, then opened his arms and caught Dean as he tumbled into the plush nest that his bed was right now, lying next to him. He didn't fall asleep. But he did catch his breath listening to a Knight of Hell whispering to him about how everything was going to be all right, and how much he loved him.


	22. Chapter Twenty-two

_Most of the time, being a hunter means tracking down and killing monsters. Things that used to be people: ghosts, demons, vampires, wendigoes, werewolves, stuff like that. Things that were never people in the first place: dragons, trolls, wraiths, rugarus, banshees. Things that aren't even animate: cursed objects, hex bags, spells. So it'll be easy, most of the time. You're going toe-to-toe with pure evil. Predators. Murderers, cannibals. Rapists and child-killers, in some cases. It's not hard to ram a stake or send a bullet through the head of something that doesn't look or act at all like a human being._

_Where you can expect to hit a wall is when you have to take out another person. Yeah, you read that exactly right: chances are that, sometime in your career, you're gonna have to kill a human. Either for your safety and/or somebody else's. Not every monsters has two sets of fangs and weird eyes._

_Our duty is to protect normal people. And if there's another person posing as a threat to them, then you have to remove it. A serial killer using a severe local haunting to cover up his own murders. An arsonist following a cherufe around and provoking it into starting fires. Some nutbag trying to train werewolves – trust me, it's happened before, people are idiots. It'll bother you for a long, long time. Of course it will. You just have to remember that it's not murder if you're protecting innocents._

_You can still be charged for it, though, so…I wouldn't sit next to a police officer if you go to a bar planning to get drunk._

_One of the biggest taboos in our community is killing another hunter. You don't do that. There are so few of us, and we've got a tough enough time with the things we hunt coming at us from all directions. At best, if you kill a hunter, you'll be ostracized. At worst, someone will find you and make you pay. Does that mean that hunters are never violent or dangerous enough to have to be put down for the greater good? Of course it doesn't._

-  _"_ _Killing Human Monsters," posted on website of Sam Winchester_

* * *

"Come on," Dean complained as he trailed after Sam. "Stop being such a pussy, Sam. He  _tried_  to do it to me. And you can't seriously believe that he wouldn't do it to you in a second if he got the chance."

"No, I – I get it, he's a psychopath. He wants to vivisect me," Sam replied, crouching down in order to pick up a length of chain. After a second, he tossed it away and straightened up, dusting his hands off on his jeans. It'd been too rusty on the end to be Dean's. "But that – it's just not a good idea, Dean. It's the  _worst_  idea, actually."

"Worse than – " Dean began, but Sam immediately held up a hand to cut him off as he stepped over a torn-up plastic bucket.

"No," he said, shaking his head. It was going to be something stupid or cruel, he could just tell, and he wasn't in the mood for Dean's sense of humor. "Just don't. This is serious."

"Yeah. I know." Dean's boots crunched over refuse, metal and plastic and cloth and decaying meat. The trash pile didn't smell good (primarily because of that last thing), which was why it was located so far away from the cabin. Sam's leg ached just from hiking out here, and stumbling around on uneven ground wasn't helping. He heard a jingle behind him and turned in order to see Dean holding up a half-ring of iron, the hem of his T-shirt wrapped around his hand so he wouldn't burn himself. "Look. Found the other half of my collar."

"Awesome. Put it over there." Sam pointed to a small pile off to the side that already held Dean's separated handcuffs and the first half of his collar.

"You put all this crap in your shed to begin with, right?" Dean asked, tossing the collar. It hit the other things with a loud, ringing  _clang_. When Sam nodded, he continued. "So why the hell'd you throw it out here? It was probably a whole lot easier to find back in there."

Sam watched him jerk a thumb over his shoulder, indicating the general direction of the shed. He bent to pick up another chain, but stopped when he realized that it was too thin.

"I just didn't like looking at it," he replied.

"Well, now you're looking  _for_  it." Dean kicked over a sagging, water-weakened cardboard box and looked under it. Sam turned his back on him for a second, but glanced over his shoulder when he heard a wet crunching sound. Dean had apparently uncovered a snake and was grinding its head under his heel. He looked at Sam, speaking normally to him despite the snake brains on his boot. "Seriously. Why are we doing this? What is so wrong with my plan?"

"Besides that it involves kidnapping, torturing, and killing a very prominent hunter?" Sam replied after a slight pause. "Oh, nothing."

"How many times do I gotta tell you," Dean began, walking over to the nearest tree and beginning to scrape his boot off on its bark, "that the bastard deserves it?"

"It's not a matter of whether or not he deserves it," Sam replied, sighting another chain and tromping over to it. He had the oddest feeling that he was repeating himself, for whatever reason. "I know he  _deserves_  it. But it's a matter of what'll happen to me if it gets out what I did to him. My position in the community's kind of important."

"Chicken," Dean accused. "C'mon, Samsquatch, go ahead and live a little! Which'd be more fun – pulling Gordon's fingernails out or pretending to tie me up so you can try and trick him?"

Sam didn't answer. This chain was finally the right one, so he picked it up and carried it over to the other pieces.

"And so what if all the other hunters come after you with torches and pitchforks?" Dean was continuing, turning so that he could keep his eyes on Sam. "I can protect you. I can get you outta here if we need to run."

Sam ignored him, mostly tuning him out, but he stopped and looked at him when he reached the pile of restraints. Dean stared back, silent now. The chain hung limply in Sam's hands as the faint but unmistakable ringing of a telephone drifted through the woods, coming from the direction of the cabin.

"Think that's him?" Dean asked, coolly serious now.

"Well – probably," Sam answered, shrugging.

"So he's most likely on his way up right now."

"Uhh, seems safe to assume that, yeah."

"All right." Dean said it decisively as he brought his hands together in a brisk clap, then walked towards the collar and the handcuffs on the ground. "Let's go tie me up, then."

"There is no way he's gonna buy this," Dean predicted, shaking his head slowly as Sam tightly wrapped a few layers of dark gray duct tape around one of the breaks in his collar.

"Yeah. Shut up," Sam replied, speaking through teeth that had been gritted by stress for over an hour now. "You're the one who suggested using – " He tore the tape off, violently, and tucked the ragged edge of it up under the solid iron of the collar. " – duct tape!"

"Well, excuse the fuck outta me for not wanting you to weld the damn thing back together while it was around my neck," Dean replied, looking toward the open doorway of the cell.

"How'd he get it on you in the first place?" Sam demanded, moving to Dean's other side so that he could tape up the second break.

"I don't know," Dean answered. "He knocked me out first. Salt-coated bullet, straight into the skull. How he caught me, actually." He lifted his hands, cuffed together again and the chain repaired by the clever application of fishing line, so that he could point at the very base of his skull. "It was a real bitch to close that up."

Sam stopped for a second, shocked even though he was plenty familiar with how brutal Gordon could be. "Is there still a bullet in there?"

"No," Dean replied. "I wound up spitting it out."

Finished with the duct tape, Sam tossed the roll aside. He heard it bouncing across the concrete floor as he picked up the chain and got started with it, wrapping it around Dean's upper body and hooking it to his collar and handcuffs. He really should have taken a picture or at least done a sketch before he dismantled Dean's restraints. He was having trouble remembering exactly how Gordon had had the chain.

Gordon had called, speaking of him. Dean's guess had been exactly right; it'd been him on the phone, informing Sam that he was only a couple states away now and would be at his cabin before sundown. Dean had assumed that that gave them plenty of time. Sam, however, hadn't been able to keep the vagueness of the deadline from making him freak out. Which was why he'd immediately gone to work getting Dean locked down the way that Gordon would remember him being. Strapping his legs to the chair (he couldn't do his chest until he was finished with the chain). Putting his handcuffs on. There were some things he couldn't fix, like the damage to the Circle and to Dean's collar, so he just did his best to cover them up. With a dirty, frayed towel and duct tape, respectively. He was just doing what he could.

"Think he'll notice that I'm wearing different clothes?" Dean asked.

"They're close enough," replied Sam, who had thought of that and made Dean change.

"Think he'll notice that they're  _clean_?" Dean pressed.

"What I'm really hoping – " Sam attached the chain to the last free point on Dean's collar, then moved on to the straps around his chest. " – is that he won't look at you too closely. Which is also why I agreed to your –  _idiotic_ duct tape idea." The chair was slightly askew. He turned it. "If I have the time, I'll throw dirt and blood at you. If not, I'll just tell him I spent a few hours really hosing you down because you were starting to stink."

Dean glanced at him as he checked the tightness of all the straps. Sam wasn't looking up, but he could feel his eyes on him. He could also tell that he was shaking his head a little.

"I gotta say, it's really weirding me out to hear you talking about me like I'm some kinda circus animal or something," he said.

"Welp, that's how Gordon thinks of you, so…" Sam cleared his throat. "Get used to it."

"You are a  _lot_  less fun when you're freaking the fuck out," Dean observed, after a ten-second pause in which Sam made sure his boots were laced. "What crawled up your ass, anyway?"

Sam opened his mouth to snark something right back, angry and offended, but Dean interrupted him before he could get it out, suddenly serious once again. "Sam. Car coming."

No other three words could have struck such icy terror into Sam's heart. "How far away?" He straightened, standing bolt upright next to Dean. Like someone had taped a poker to his spine. They might as well have, with the iron-cold chills running up and down it.

"…twenty miles?" Dean guessed. He sounded so collected that it was shocking to the silently-panicking Sam. "Should be here in at least as many minutes. Probably less."

"Okay." Sam forced himself to stay moderately calm and think about what that new information meant for his plan. He could have a full breakdown later. In Dean's arms. When they were both safe. Had living alone in the cabin really made him so fragile that a visit from a suspicious hunter could completely undo him? "No time for blood and dirt, then. How're you gonna talk to me?"

"I'm not," Dean replied. "I hate your crippled ass, and I'm not afraid you, either. You're not worth my time."

"And how're you gonna talk to Gordon?"

"Scream as many cuss words as I can think of at him," Dean replied. " _Him_ , I'm afraid of."

"Okay. Awesome." They could do this. This would work.

"Wanna have sex again after he leaves?" Dean asked him. Sam stared, then brought his hands up to rake the fingers through his hair.

"Can – can you focus on something else?" he asked. "Can you do that, please? For five minutes? Can you – " He tapped his temples with the tips of his fingers, realizing, at the same time that he did it, that the panic was slipping through. Water trickling through cracks in the dam. " – switch on your upstairs brain?"

"I  _am_  focusing on something else," Dean replied, sounding a little indignant. "I'm focusing on  _you._ You're like a freaking Chihuahua, man. I've never seen anybody so damn neurotic."

"I can't help it." Sam tried to snap it out, but it just sounded…well, helpless.

"Yeah, I can tell," Dean replied. He raised both eyebrows. "Could you look forward to the two of us making love again when this is all over? Window thrown open, bed made, sun setting outside? Would that distract you?"

Sam was quiet. He closed his eyes and rubbed them with the thumb and forefinger of one hand, envisioning the scene that Dean was describing despite himself.

"Sammy, I'm just trying to get you to calm down." Dean's voice had softened considerably. "Look, Gordon might be a maniac worthy of his own Alfred Hitchcock movie, but he ain't stupid. Or blind. If you answer the door as jittery as you are now, he's gonna know for sure that something's up."

Sam ran the fingers of one hand through his hair again, blowing out a deep breath as he looked away. As much as he hated to admit it, Dean had a real point.

"Hey. Look at me." Even in handcuffs, Dean could snap his fingers pretty effectively. Sam looked. "Everything's gonna be fine, okay? It'll be a cakewalk. You just play your part, and I'll play mine, and he'll be outta here in under half an hour."

Sam closed his eyes and blew out another deep breath. "Yeah. You're right,"

"You bet that tight little ass of yours I'm right," Dean replied, a smile tugging at one corner of his full mouth. "Now, c'mere."

Sam walked over to him, then bent when Dean tilted his face up and closed his eyes. The kiss, soft, quick, and innocent, went a long way towards calming the nerves that Dean's words hadn't reached. When he straightened up again, he could hear an engine approaching.

"Go get 'im, tiger," Dean encouraged as Sam turned around as headed for the doorway of the cell. He brought his hands together in a weak clap, limited by the cuffs. "We got this."

"I think I'm good now," Sam assured, closing and locking the gate. He could tell because Dean had started to sound like a Little League coach to him. "Oh. Wait." He'd just thought of something. "Change your eyes."

Dean blinked, and his gaze became solid black instead of green. Tires crunched over gravel and twigs outside. "Good idea."

Sam smiled quickly in acknowledgment, stuffing his keys back into the pocket of his jeans. The weathered boards of his porch creaked under a hunter's weight, and there were three firm knocks on his door. Dean started yelling almost immediately

"That you, you son of a bitch?! How fucking stupid do you have to be to get close to me again? Like I don't remember what you and all your fuckbuddies did to me before you turned me over to this limping piece of shit! I'll rip your skin off with my fucking teeth!"

Sam made a little bit of a face, turning away and crossing the room to his front door. Ouch. But he couldn't say that it didn't sound realistic. He undid the locks that had been in place since earlier this morning, settling into a weary, fed-up expression without having to think much about it. Locks disengaged, he swung open the door, beginning, "H – "

He never got the chance to finish the word. Of course he saw the shotgun butt swinging up beneath Gordon's face, which might as well have belonged to a statue. Of course he heard Dean's furious, terrified bellow of warning. He just processed both way too slowly to keep it from smashing into his chin.

"That's gonna be the last thing you ever did – you lay a finger on him, and I'll pull you apart for  _months_!"

Chains rattled, a chair's legs thumped against a concrete floor. A demon howled and raged. Sam, on the floor, the lower half of his face numb and useless, looked up, and saw the stock ripping down towards him. His vision exploded with bloody fireworks.

And then there wasn't anything at all.

* * *

Sam came to slowly, fuzzily. It wasn't like waking up in the morning, even after a night of extremely fitful sleep; it was really more like waking up after a night of heavy drinking. Which had ended in a particularly nasty barfight. And then getting hit by a semi.

Sickening aches pounded in his jaw and head and converged in his stomach, which felt about as calm as an ocean with a hurricane passing over it. He couldn't quite get his eyes open. His neck and shoulders were flaming with the agony of pulled muscles. A moan rolled out of him, mostly against his will, and it sounded distant to his ears. That probably wasn't a good sign.

"Sammy?" Someone called his name, tense and urgent. It sounded pretty far away, too, but the voice was warmly familiar. Maybe there'd been some kind of accident. Maybe they were looking for him. Sam tried to call back, to open his eyes, but all he managed was another moan and to make his head loll limply on his neck. It was dangling, he realized. He could feel his chin against his chest. "Aw,  _Jesus_. Can you see okay?" D'you feel sick?"

Sam half-grunted, half-whimpered when bootsteps rapidly approached and someone seized a handful of his hair. His head was roughly hauled up. His eyelids fell away from each other, but it didn't do him much good, since the world around him was blurry and out of focus. Just shapes and colors. He became vaguely aware of a string of drool hanging from his lower lip.

"You satisfied now, you black-eyed bastard?" a new voice, not directed at Sam, demanded. He didn't like this one. A shudder of fear and nausea ran through him. "I didn't kill your whore." The hand let Sam drop. His chin hit his chest, and his teeth clicked together so hard that part of him worried about chipping. The rest of him was preoccupied with the bolt of pain that it produced. "Now go ahead and talk."

"Let him outta that chair first," the first voice replied. "You might be one twisted son of a bitch, but you don't want your only edge to die. He's concussed. Bad. You lose him, you got nothing on me."

Recognition flashed like a strobe light in Sam's brain. He forced his head up so that he could try to see again, forced the muscles of his neck to do what he wanted them to, just like he had so many times before with the ones in his leg. Hair hung in a blood-matted curtain in front of his eyes, so he wouldn't have been able to see even if his vision hadn't been blurry. His mouth felt clumsy and alien to him, but he somehow managed to get out a single simple word: "Dean."

"Right over here, Sam," Dean assured him. Some of the fuzziness was starting to lift from Sam's battered mind. He needed to focus. They were in trouble. But what was going on? "In the cell. Where you put me.  _Genius_  plan, by the way."

"What?" Sam asked blankly, having no idea what Dean was talking about. Boots crossed the floor, metal clinked against itself. A huge, threatening blur moved across Sam's hair-obscured vision.

"Yeah, you are totally out of it," Dean concluded. "Never mind about your stupid plan. Just listen to me, sheepdog-boy. Okay?" Sam turned his head in the direction that he thought his voice was coming from. "Close enough. Mr. Sunshine over there – laying his knives out on your desk right now, by the way – just about knocked your brains out with a shotgun. You've probably got a concussion. You're tied to a chair." The heavy boots moved again. "And he knows about…us."

Something smashed, loudly, against what sounded like the metal bars of a gate, and Sam winced.

"Shut it, Singer," someone ordered. Probably whoever Dean had called "Mr. Sunshine." "Or thing wearing Singer's meat, at least. Else I'll start pulling off body parts."

Dean didn't say anything, and Sam realized, suddenly, that he was protecting him. It was his body parts that the guy was talking about.

The boots approached him. He shrank away, instinctively. He couldn't control his reactions right now. But the owner of the boots made a soothing sound, and a huge, callused hand cupped his chin. Another brushed his hair back from his eyes as pain lanced through his wounded jaw, and he blinked up at the face above him with the realization that his vision had started to clear. Details resolved themselves, and he knew who he was looking at. Gordon. Gordon had knocked him out and tied him up; he was in a chair, his wrists held together behind the back of it with a zip tie. His ankles, though, were free.

"Well, good morning, Juliet," the big guy practically cooed. "Ooh. Got a coupla nasty marks coming up, don't you? I'm sure your boyfriend'll still think you're pretty." He let go of him, and Sam had to fight to keep his head up. "Besides. He fucks you from the back, doesn't he? Like wild animals."

"We don't," Sam said thickly. He tried to shake his head, but it made him sick, so he stopped. "I've never…" But wait. Gordon already knew – Dean had told him that. He couldn't remember why Gordon was here, or how he'd knocked him out, but that was solid.

"Don't  _lie_  to me." Gordon gave Sam's head an aggressive shove. "Your demon told me everything. So I wouldn't cut your tongue off while you were out. I won't even pretend to understand it, but he's  _attached_  to you for some godforsaken reason." He took hold of Sam's hair again, maneuvering his head until he had to stare up at him. Gordon's face was a mask of disgust and fury. "He told me that you took his chains off. How you let him out. What you  _did_  with him." He gave Sam's head a rough shake, making him cry out in pain. "How the hell could you?"

"Watch it," Dean warned from his cell. Sam couldn't see him, but Gordon turned his head in order to address him.

"Or what, Casanova?" he asked. "You can't do a damn thing." He looked back to Sam, and smiled at him. "Little Sammy here wrapped you up nice and tight before I even got here. Like a Christmas present."

Sam didn't remember that, either, but man. He'd really screwed up.

"I  _should_  thank you for that, but I just can't bring myself to condone anything that you do," Gordon continued, shaking his head. "Letting yourself become a demon's fucktoy?" He let go of Sam, almost throwing his head away from himself. "Goddammit, boy. You were a hunter. You're a human being."

Sam stared dumbly up at him as he added, "I made sure." Gordon dragged a hand over the left side of his neck, and the patchwork of small cuts and burns there suddenly lit up with feeling. "Used every test in the book. You're clean."

He actually sounded disappointed about that, Sam noted as, wearily, he told him, "I could've told you that."

Gordon ignored him, dropping into a crouch. He snapped his fingers in front of Sam's nose, impatient, to get him to focus. Sam gave it his best shot.

"Yeah. Look at me when I'm talking to you, asshole," he instructed. "Your ass is mine now. Doesn't have 'Dantalion' written all over it anymore."

"You fucking touch him – " Dean began, yelling furiously.

"Keep your goddamn pants on," Gordon interrupted, yelling over his shoulder to shut him up. "Your precious little sex doll is safe – I'm no fag." He looked at Sam again, who had felt a muscle in his jaw start to work. "Got no problem with 'em. Don't get me wrong. Just as good at hunting as anybody else. It's when you start taking a monster's dick up your ass that it starts bothering me. And demons…" Gordon straightened up. "…are some of the worst monsters out there."

"I got rid of…a  _huge_  threat," Sam replied, struggling inside of his own mind. He knew that, technically, he couldn't think past a concussion, but that didn't mean that he wasn't going to try. "I tamed a Knight of Hell. I flipped a major demonic agent. So you can go to hell."

"Attaboy, Sammy, you tell 'im," Dean encouraged. Gordon ignored him.

"Well, I don't know about me, but that's definitely where you're going," he told Sam, turning away from him and walking over to his desk. Knives were laid out all along the surface, as well as a bulging leather satchel. He pulled open the latter and began to rummage through it. "Giving yourself to a demon? Gotta be a one-way ticket. Just as bad as selling your soul to one of 'em." He pulled out an extremely battered old journal, held together with little more than masking tape and staples. "You are an abomination, Sam Winchester. You are as close to fallen as a man can possibly be. You've betrayed all of us, by letting this Knight roam around free and violate your body, and you're going to pay for it."

"So you're going to kill me?" Sam asked, straightening himself up in his chair by planting his bare feet on the floor and pushing. He was in a corner, the furthest one from Dean's cell. His meager, mismatched weight set had been dragged out to make room for his chair. He noticed it all, head getting more and more clear with every second that passed (though the pain stayed right where it was). He nodded in the direction of the demon cell as he added, "While he watches."

"Kill you? Oh, no, no." Gordon shook his head, frowning, as he let the beat-up journal fall open in his hand. "Y'see, Sam, I caught wind of something interesting on my way up here. And, frankly, killing you the way you deserve would be a waste of time, which I'm pretty short on currently." He started flipping through the frayed and faded pages, reminding Sam eerily of himself as his dark eyes scanned rapidly. "I'm gonna be hard-pressed to exorcise Dantalion Singer here before his friends push past your wards as it is."

Sam laughed. Very briefly, because it hurt.

"Well, good luck with that," he told Gordon, smugness leaking into his voice. "More power to you. But you're not gonna be able to get rid of him. I threw my strongest rituals at him, and he didn't budge."

"That'd be," Gordon began, looking up from his journal, "because your rituals were just meant for standard demons.  _Mine_  is designed specifically for Knights." He shook the journal, fluttering the pages and smirking as Sam's own smile disappeared from his face. "You're not the only one out there who can do research, you smug bastard. And I'm not  _tied_  somewhere like you are, 'cause I'm physically no good."

A sharp, furious rattling started up in Dean's cell. Gordon raised his voice in order to be heard above it as he began to walk around the cabin's main room.

"Rattle those chains all you want, demon," he called. "You're not budging an inch. Your pet cripple made sure of that."

He glanced at Sam, next, even as he kept looking through his journal. "Honestly didn't think I'd be able to figure it out on my own," he told him. "Or have the time to. Get rid of a Knight, I mean." He frowned down at the book for a second. "Plus, this is pretty much all you're good for: figuring out how these damn things tick. Thought I might as well contribute to your purpose." He flipped another page, then smiled, suddenly. "But I started getting suspicious pretty soon, when you weren't giving me any information at all. Decided to try and find a few things out on my own. Took a while, and it was a pain in the ass, but I dug up a  _lot_  of interesting information. Looks like I'm better at this than you ever were, and I was reading books and doing interviews between exorcisms." He lifted his eyes and shook his head as he started to walk forward. "Useless."

Sam clenched his jaw and glared murderously as Gordon approached him once again. He wouldn't give him the satisfaction of speaking anymore. Gordon grinned down at him.

"You know what your problem is?" he asked him. "You're  _weak._  So weak. In mind, in spirit…" He suddenly slammed a booted foot into Sam's twisted calf, a vicious kick reminiscent of the one Dean had given him such a long time ago. Sam screamed as tears sprang, burning, to his eyes. Wendigoes and pine trees and rotting meat. Dean shouted wordlessly, the sound enraged, from his cell. "…and in body most of all. All that muscle, all that height, and you can't lift a finger to save your demon." He walked away, journal in hand. "That's another reason that it'd just be a waste of time to kill you. The others'll take care of you when they show up to save their Knight. Or something else will. Dehydration. Starvation. Exposure."

Sam watched him reach into the pocket of his jeans as he reached the gate to Dean's cell, pulling out the keys that he must have stolen from him while he was knocked out. A low, angry growling came from inside as Gordon unlocked it – Sam hadn't known that Dean could make that sound. It was replaced by a rapid-fire stream of caustic swear words as he swung it open and stepped inside. Then the exorcism started.

Dean kept swearing, at the top of his lungs. Screaming and yelping as his smokey essence was pulled, inch by inch, out of his body. Yelling random words in Latin to try and mess Gordon up. Retching loudly as he vomited up himself. Calling out to Sam. Sometimes trying to reassure him, sometimes begging for his help. And through it all, Gordon's deep voice boomed in archaic Latin, forcing him out.

Sam tried to stop it. Of course he did. He tried to get out of the chair, just stand up and go, but quickly realized that the zip tie around his wrists had also been looped around one of the chunky dowels that made up the back of the chair. The position was too awkward for him to break it. He tried to pick up the whole chair, and discovered that Gordon hadn't moved all of his weights out of the corner. He'd secured about sixty pounds' worth of them to the legs of the chair. Sam couldn't lift it without dislocating both his shoulders.

"Don't!" he yelled, resorting to a different tactic. "Gordon, stop, don't – he knows how to close the Gates of Hell!"

He knew it was a desperate gamble. He knew how dangerous it was to tell Gordon that Dean knew that. But he would have done anything at all to keep him here – and it didn't work, anyway. Gordon just kept on going.

Sam strained at the plastic of the zip ties until their unforgiving edges bit into his wrists hard enough to draw blood. He clawed at the wooden floor with his bare feet, desperately trying to scoot himself forward. Of course, he didn't budge an inch on either front. Gordon had known what he was doing.

Sam didn't want to cry. It seemed to him that that would just be handing Gordon the ultimate victory, on a silver platter. But listening to Dean's pain, his struggle, turned out to be too much after wrestling with his own bonds for about forty-five minutes. He was losing him. Gordon's words were driving him back to Hell, back to all that pain, back to the demons he'd betrayed by telling Sam who he was and restraining himself so he wouldn't hurt him. Away from Sam. Everything had been useless. Sam bowed his head, hair hanging around his face and blocking out his cabin, and gritted his teeth as his eyes burned. It made his jaw feel like someone was pounding a red-hot railroad spike into it, but he ignored the pain. Everything hurt right now, after all.

It took an eternity, but the ritual finally wound down. Dean's voice had been weakening for a while now, and as Sam listened, it faded to soft, agonized whimpers. He wanted to say something. Assure him that it would be all right. He couldn't think of a way to phrase something like that without it coming out weak and devastatingly unconvincing, though, and it was too late anyway, all of a sudden. The whimpers became a long, rattling gurgle that cut off into nothing after about a minute. Hot saltwater pattered onto the thighs of Sam's jeans, and all he could think about was fire and blood and knives made of teeth. And pale, freckled flesh, fragile as porcelain under a blade.

He heard the gate swing open again, nearly soundless, and Gordon stepped out of the cell. The hunter crossed the room towards him as he began to speak, tone conversational.

"Welp, he's definitely gone," Gordon announced. "No heartbeat on the vessel. It'll probably start rotting soon. I'd tell you to clean it up, but I doubt you're gonna be around much longer, either. Those demons can't be far away."

Sam lifted his head, and didn't care that his eyes were wet and probably swollen as he glared, boiling over with hate and rage, at Gordon.

"You just did it to hurt me, and him," he stated quietly. His voice came out a lot clearer than he'd expected it to. "Don't even try to pretend it was for the 'greater good.' You sent a cooperative Knight of Hell, with  _intimate_  knowledge of – of everything we need to know, back to the demons. You don't care about people, you don't care about winning this damn war you've been going on and on about to me. You're just a sadist – all you care about is getting off on pain and suffering." His voice had risen, furious. "How does it feel to know you're more of a monster than the  _demon_ you just exorcised?"

Gordon chuckled, glancing down at his boots. "Is that really what – "

He cut himself off, because Sam had spit at him, saliva landing directly under his left eye. Gordon blinked, his lips parting slightly, as he reached up to wipe it away. He regarded Sam for a second. Sam glared back; sucking up a thin string of leftover spittle. He didn't look away, even when Gordon's fist smashed into his face and set off fireworks in his head for the second time that day.

Sam's eye immediately started to swell shut, pounding and throbbing. It hadn't done his head or jaw any favors, but at least it hadn't knocked him out again. He was still reeling a little, though, when Gordon grabbed his hair once more and wrapped it tightly around his fist, pulling so hard on it that Sam's scalp stung.

"I'm no monster," he said adamantly, making fierce eye contact with Sam. "No, that's  _you_ , Winchester. Loving these things. Treating 'em like kids and people, letting 'em out after we've spent years locking 'em up. You're as bad as any of them. As for your boyfriend – think he's burning now? Think they're pulling his guts out for letting himself get captured?" Sam felt his face tighten. Gordon jerked his head, painfully, back. "Oh, no. No more spitting, bitch." He grinned. "I told you you were weak. And you're even weaker now that your hard cock's gone. You didn't have the _strength_  to keep me from sending him back to Hell. You don't have the  _strength_  to act like a human being, a man – "

Sam didn't think as he raised the leg that a wendigo had gouged to pieces seven years ago, pulling it back. The tattered muscles might as well have been moving on their own. But he  _felt_  as he kicked forward, savage satisfaction flooding him as he stared down Gordon. The ball of his foot hit his knee, and it bent backwards like a dry twig, bone snapping and cartilage crunching and ligaments popping out of their moorings. He didn't smile as Gordon screamed and let go of him in order to collapse to the ground, just moved his foot out of the way. He didn't take any pleasure in this. He wasn't anything like the other man.

Gordon clutched his knee on the floor, teeth bared and eyes clamped shut in a grimace of agony. Sam didn't waste any time, lifting his feet again.

_Goddammit, I hope I remember how to do this –_

One foot under the head. The other on the jaw. Toes digging into the skin, gripping. His father had tied his hands behind his back when he was fourteen and made him practice on a cloth dummy he'd made himself.

 _You're gonna get tied up. You'll need this someday_.

Sam's calf already ached. He'd overdone it trying to drag himself across the floor with his legs when the one had already been sore from Gordon's kick, and he'd really overdone it when he'd broken the older man's knee. But he forced his leg to move, muscles contracting as they screamed in pain, pulling up and back. He let Gordon's head drop, limp, as soon as he heard the telltale _crack_ , and his exhausted feet thudded to the ground a second later. His chest heaved as he slumped in his chair.

He didn't allow himself to rest for long, though. Within a couple of minutes, he was sitting up straight again, hauling on the zip ties as blood trickled down over his knuckles, only one thought in his mind:  _Dean._


	23. Chapter Twenty-three

_Every demon is different, which is something that you'll have to keep in mind while hunting them. Each one is gonna have a unique skill set, things they've practiced for years and are really good at, just like people. But here's a general list of their abilities, just so that you at least know how to start preparing for a demon hunt:_

_Inhuman strength_

_Inhuman speed_

_Teleportation (range usually depends on strength of demon)_

_Telekinesis (varying range and precision_

_Inhuman reflexes_

_Possession_

_Empathy (yeah, they know what you're feeling)_

_Extreme resistance to psychological torture_

_Heightened senses (hearing, sight, touch, etc.)_

_Ability to communicate with other demons via pools of human blood_

_Don't think that this is a complete list. I've met demons who could control fire, read minds, levitate, hypnotize people with their eyes and voices…all sorts of dangerous stuff. So I guess the best advice I can give you is to expect the unexpected._

\- Demons and Other Biblical Monsters _, Sam Winchester_

* * *

"Urnh!"

Droplets of blood splattered the floor and wall behind Sam's chair as he finally yanked one hand, his right, free of the zip tie that held his wrists to the back of it. He brought it up to his face and flexed, making sure it still worked, as he shook his other hand free of the now-loose makeshift handcuffs. Both of his hands were scraped raw and crimson from wrist to knuckles. They felt like he'd lit them on fire, but at least he could still use them.

Planting the heels on the edges of the chair, Sam forced himself up onto his feet with a grunt of pain and effort. And immediately found himself on the floor. He grabbed at his left leg, feeling his face screw up in agony. It wouldn't hold him. It hurt too bad, and he'd done too much with it; it wouldn't even stay straight. The muscles, usually knotted with cramping and scar tissue, felt like melting Jell-O under his hand.

He wasn't going to be able to walk. Not even if he went and got his cane. He needed crutches, and he didn't have any in the house. Which meant that he'd have to drag himself around, like he had after Dean had kicked him in the leg, to get everything that he was going to need. He was desperately short on time, but he didn't have any other choice.

Candles, herbs, a lighter, a spellbook. Retrieving all of it was an epic quest in and of itself, and left Sam's biceps trembling and burning. The floor had a lot of smeared, bloody handprints on it, too. It looked like a murder scene. He definitely felt like some sort of monster, dragging his lower body around like this. Teke Teke, but with his legs still attached, if useless.

He'd been able to use his right one at first, and half-crawling was much easier, but even it had never been particularly reliable, clipped by the wendigo and forced to do most of the work of the other for years. It cramped up fairly quickly, and then he had to drag it, too.

Into the demon cell, cradling the ingredients against his heaving chest with one arm and using the other to pull himself over the floor. Doorjamb, towel with shattered concrete underneath it, solid concrete. He dumped what he was carrying in the Circle, then continued on to Dean's chair. He grabbed his calves. They felt strange, inside the legs of his jeans. Dead. Sam pulled himself up onto his weak knees.

There was a noise, far away. A hoot, a whoop, he couldn't tell. His heart jumped in his chest, but he focused on Dean.

Assuming the vessel – Dean's body – had stopped working as soon as the last of Dean's essence had been dragged out of it by Gordon's exorcism, he'd been clinically dead for just over an hour now. Not that long. He'd cooled down, but not completely. Rigor mortis hadn't set in yet. His face, pale and slack, was aimed down at his lap, head dangling limply. His eyes were still clear, if empty and half-closed. Sam knew he couldn't afford to waste any time, but he took a second to look at him anyway, thinking that he really looked more like a porcelain doll version of himself than a dead body. He was almost beautiful like this. He looked much younger, much more relaxed.

Sam undid the straps first. Then the chain – he hurled it across the cell, resenting it for holding Dean in. The fishing line that held the handcuffs together had already been broken, probably during the exorcism, so he didn't worry about that. He pulled the duct tape off the collar and threw the two halves away. At that point, he'd hauled himself up onto Dean's lap, but now he slid back down onto the floor and pulled the body off the chair. He caught him with a grunt, at least a hundred and eighty pounds of dead weight.

He wasn't handling a corpse, he told himself as he laid Dean out on the cool floor. This body would be alive again within minutes. But he still closed the glassy green eyes, for whatever reason.

He dumped all the herbs together in a mixing bowl at Dean's head, a candle on either side of it. He pulled the lighter out of his pocket. After touching the flame of it to the wick of each candle, he held it to the top of the pile of herbs in the bowl. He flinched back, slightly, when they went up like a sparkler. The middle of the pile was reduced to soft, sticky ash, while the edges smoldered in a ring of heat. He reached into the bowl, dipping his fingers into the warm ash, then used it to draw on Dean's forehead. An inverted pentagram enclosed within a circle.

Sam let out a deep breath, closing his eyes briefly. He wiped his ashy fingers on his jeans, then dragged the heavy, leatherbound spellbook over to himself. He opened it on his lap, flipping through the cracking vellum pages in order to find the incantation that he needed. It was in Icelandic. He really had no idea why, but at least it was written phonetically, so he could read it.

It was long, spanning ten pages in a tiny, handwritten script. Sam's tongue and throat were aching with overuse by the second page, but he kept going. He had to get Dean back. He visualized the awkward, foreign words as fishhooks, dug into the demon's soul, dragging him back up out of Hell.

He started to see some results by the seventh page. Dean's fingers twitched. His feet inside his boots. His fingers, his arms. His eyelids. His hips. His hands clenched into fists on the eighth page. If Sam squinted, he could see thin strands of black floating around Dean, flowing up from the concrete floor and inching into his mouth, eyes, nose, and ears. He would've liked to keep an eye on those, but, unfortunately, he had to keep reading.

Dean's eyes opened on the ninth page, clear and focused, black as stormclouds. And bulging out of his sockets, the muscles around them taut and solid, like he was panicking. Which Sam realized he definitely was, as soon as he finished the last page. Dean's mouth popped open and he screamed like he was being skinned alive.

Sam winced away from him, unable to stop himself as the sound bored into his ears. He got a handle on himself then, though, and tossed the spellbook aside, reaching to move the candles and bowl as Dean sat upright so fast he swore he heard his spine creak. He'd stopped screaming. Terrified, panicked half-sobs were pouring out of him now. They punctuated him grabbing, violently, at his body, chest, arms, legs, shoulders, face, wrists, neck. Sam didn't think it'd be wise to interrupt him.

Dean curled up into a ball, hands cupping over his ears as he dug his fingernails into the skin on the back of his head. Sam was sure that he would have been pulling on his hair if it had just been long enough for him to get ahold of it. He scooted away from him, just a little, the movement instinctive, when the sobs petered out and he began to make a high-pitched, broken keening noise. It came out of his chest. Sam lifted a skinned hand, then let it drop. He wanted to touch Dean. But he wasn't sure what kind of effect it would have on him. Swallowing as Dean started to tremble and rock, he licked his thumb and forefinger, numbly pinching out the candles. There didn't seem to be anything else he could do right now. It reminded him too much, horribly, of when Dean's memories had come crashing back into him, the good with the bad all at once.

It was a few candles later that the terrible keening, which had started to grate on Sam's ears and heart alike, resolved itself into recognizable words. Sam's stomach clenched.

"S-Sam…Sa-am…Sam – "

"I'm – " His mouth, dry, failed him as he pinched out another candle. He swallowed again, trying to summon saliva, and managed to speak this time: "I'm right here, Dean."

He'd just barely put out the last candle, finished speaking, when Dean glanced over his shoulder with a lightning quick snap of his neck. Sam blinked, which was how he missed being yanked against Dean's chest and pretty much cocooned in his arms. And his legs; he wrapped his legs around him, too. Sam bit back a gasp of pain at the molten lava that the rough movement had poured over his leg, head, and face, but Dean didn't seem to notice his pain anyway.

He held him like Sam was a life preserver in a rough ocean, burying his face in the crook between his neck and shoulder as he slowly quieted. He felt for his long hair with one hand, tangling his fingers deep inside of it and stroking it repetitively with his thumb. As if reassuring himself that it wasn't going anywhere. Sam wasn't really sure what he should do, but, hesitantly, he put his arms around Dean, and started rubbing his back, between his shoulder blades. He heard a scratching and a crunching outside, and tensed slightly, but it was far away, and he'd give Dean as much time recover as he needed. He felt him breathing heavily, his heart pounding. It was a while before he spoke.

"How long was I gone?" he asked huskily.

"About ninety minutes," Sam replied. He hesitated, briefly, before asking a question of his own: "How long was it for you?"

"Week," Dean mumbled, and a chill shot down Sam's spine. A week in Hell. He couldn't even imagine. "I was in deep. None of the Lords found me or anything, but there were a ton of weaker demons – too many. Couldn't fight 'em all off forever. They were excited to have a Knight to play with. Fucking bastards."

Sam swallowed what felt like a bowling ball made of guilt before beginning, "Dean, I'm so sorry, I should've hurr – "

"Where's Gordon?" Dean interrupted, pulling back and putting maybe an inch of distance between them.

"Uh…dead," Sam replied. He was sure that the reality would hit him later, but right now, with so many other pressing matters to focus on, he was kind of detached.

"He do this?" Very, very gently, Dean touched Sam's swollen eye, then the tender knots on his forehead and jaw. After Sam nodded (instead of sarcastically remarking that he obviously hadn't done it to himself), Dean shook his head. "Jesus. You look like hell – and I should know." Sam snorted. "If you hadn't already taken care of him, I'd rip his lungs out…how'd you do it?"

"Broke his neck," Sam replied, not all that eager to talk about it.

" _How_? Your damn hands were tied to a chair."

"I…uh." Sam cleared his throat. "I used my feet."

Dean stared at him for a second, then shook his head again, snorting softly as he looked away. "Yeah, totally figures that you only whip out the awesome ninja Batman moves after I get exorcised. Just my luck."

"It wasn't as cool as you obviously think," Sam replied, shaking his own head.

"Yeah, whatever. Like I'm gonna believe you. Nerd." Dean glanced over his shoulder, out of the cell, then looked back to Sam. "So. We took care of Gordon. Not exactly the way that we  _wanted_ to – or you wanted to, at least – but still. We did it."

"Yeah, I…guess we did," Sam agreed. I _did it._

"We should take care of you now." Dean touched Sam's eye again. Sam opened his mouth, but Dean continued before he could say anything. "But…ninety minutes. Gordon took up almost a whole hour. There were a few hours before that." Dean maintained steady eye contact with Sam as voices, faint, approached the cabin. The boards of the porch creaked. "Which means time's run out. We've got company."

Sam swallowed, taking fistfuls of Dean's T-shirt and squeezing them nervously. He was afraid again, for the first time in a couple of hours. It wasn't, he decided, something he liked feeling.

"Yeah," he agreed, huffing out a breath. "I guess we do."

"Okay, we've gotta leave." Grunting, Dean climbed to his feet, Sam's hands in his. He tried to help him up. Sam rose the few inches that Dean had lifted him, then fell back down, still sitting on the concrete floor. "Sam…"

"I…" He had not been past the first bend in the road that led to his cabin in five years. Every single thing he owned was in here. He had no money, food, clothing, or weapons without this place. But none of those things were why he hadn't stood up. He didn't want Dean to think it was because he was throwing a tantrum about leaving his house. Like a toddler or something.

"We can't defend this place," Dean was explaining. "Not against everyone that they're gonna have brought - "

"Dean, I can't walk," Sam interrupted. "My left leg won't hold me. Not after what I did to Gordon. A-and my right one's cramping pretty bad. From…crawling around on the floor."

"You can't walk," Dean repeated. Sam shook his head.

"Not right now." Uselessly, he added, "Maybe tomorrow."

"Okay." Dean nodded. "Not a problem."

"How – " Sam trailed off into a surprised yelp when Dean simply scooped him up, cradling him bridal-style in his arms. He put a hand on his shoulder, holding onto him, slowly relaxing as he realized that he wasn't going to drop him. "What're you…?"

"Carrying you. We're going right now," Dean replied, turning and walking out of the cell. Sam's legs swung limply.

"You can't carry me," Sam protested, glancing up at the ceiling as the roof creaked under somebody's weight. "I'm  _bigger_  than you are – "

"Yeah, in height, maybe – oh,  _shit_." Dean swung rapidly away from the window over Sam's sink as a feminine hand, smeared with grime and dried blood, slammed against the glass. The line of salt on the windowsill prevented it from breaking through. "I'm  _stronger_  than you." He headed for the back door, turning, lowering his shoulder. "Tuck in, Sammy."

"No, D-Dean, wait, I need my – " He wasn't going to stop. Sam tucked his arms in and curled into Dean's chest, a small child hiding from something frightening.

"We don't have  _time_ , Sam!" Dean yelled it out as his shoulder struck Sam's back door and the heavy wood splintered like particle board. Sam closed his eyes, lowered his head.

"Hug the side of the house, there's a devil's trap," Sam warned rapidly into one of Dean's pectorals. Dean obeyed him. He left his stomach behind as they made an impossibly-sharp turn.

"Head down," Dean growled. People shouted and screamed in at least six different languages. Snarls, shrieks, hisses, chittering – a storm of sound surrounded them. "Just keep your head down." Sam felt Dean move, swerve, jump, dodge. Probably avoiding blows. He wondered how many demons there were, but the risk of losing half of his face was too great for him to risk a look. "And try to bring your legs – " What felt like a vulture's talons ripped across the bare skin of Sam's right foot, tearing out ribbons of blood and flesh. Sam screamed through gritted teeth, eyes wide and dry against Dean's chest. " – oh, fuck, dammit."

"Where – " Sam caught his breath, clutching at Dean's shirt. "Where are we going?"

"Outside your circle," Dean replied. "I've got a long way to teleport, and I can't do it with salt all around me."

"Where are we going after – "

Dean jumped to the side and rolled. Somehow without hurting Sam at all. Besides the pain in his torn-up foot, of course. And his concussed head. Back on his feet, he kept running. Sam was shocked into silence.

"Place I know," Dean said shortly. "Safe place. I can take care of you there." His fingers flicked through Sam's hair. "Your foot, your legs, your eye – your head – "

Dean stopped, dropped into a crouch, and skidded. Something above them howled in frustration.

"Almost there," he assured Sam, who turned his face in order to look up at him. He could see just enough out of his bruised eye to tell he was grinning down at him. "Feel like you're in  _Twilight_?"

Sam glared, as best he could with a highly-damaged eye. "Eat me."

Dean chuckled, looking up and focusing on what was in front of them again. "Not until your concussion clears up, Sammy." He jumped again. Behind them, something gibbered in what sounded like ancient Egyptian, and fabric ripped loudly. Dean grunted, but hit the ground running. "Everything's gonna be okay."

He adjusted his grip on Sam, going more for comfort now than protection, and Sam lifted his head. He put an arm around Dean's shoulders, looking at the pine trees swaying in a slight breeze, and steadied himself as the sounds of the other demons (and the bounce of Dean's footsteps) began to fade.

And then they were gone.


	24. Chapter Twenty-four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last chapter!
> 
> Now y'all can look forward to some oneshots and another chapter of "Heart."

_No idea if it's true or not. Ritual seems legitimate enough. But that fucking sleep spell seemed legitimate, too, and all it did was [illegible] out. Already written about that. Can't confirm this, haven't had a demon in months and the only guy who might have known if this was the real deal or not is dead. Priest, knew about everything – Jim brought me [illegible]uff, to see if there was anything useful in there. The guy was less organized than a crocatta (though I'm willing to bet he didn't sleep in a pile of trash). Took me a week to go through it all. Then there was [illegible] almost threw it away. Though it was garbage. But I [illegible] in big letters: "How to Cure a Demon."_

_My hand is shaking. Can't read half of what I've written. [illegible] If this is true, then, fuck, it changes everything. They're not lost. We can get them on our side. It changes everything._

_The blood has to come from somebody who's "purified" themselves. I think that that means confession. Makes sense, [illegible] in a church. There's some other stuff. Need to read it again. Takes forever, rough on the demon, rough on the hunter, but [illegible] 100% success rate._

_Have to test this. Fuck it, [intelligible] real. Wonder if Jim would let me try it out in his church. Does it have to be a Catholic church?_

_Need a demon first. Can't [illegible] somebody [illegible] hate it so much._

-  _Personal journal of Sam Winchester_

* * *

Wind, smelling heavily of warm dirt and rust, swept across Sam's face and blew his hair back. He had to shut his eyes against the suddenly-blinding sun. It was hot, wherever Dean had brought them. Hotter than the woods around Sam's cabin, at any rate. And the air was different. Heavier, more dry. Sam could feel it in his lungs. They weren't in the mountains anymore.

"Where are we?" he asked, opening his eyes in a squint (which his blackened one wasn't going to be able to go past) and looking around.

"South Dakota," Dean replied, right as Sam caught sight of the sign directly in front of them. Singer Salvage. "Right outside of Sioux Falls."

Sam adjusted himself in Dean's arms. His hand, on his back, brushed a rip in his T-shirt and then a wet, ragged wound. He quickly jerked his hand back, even though Dean hadn't reacted to the accidental touch.

"This is Bobby's place," he said. He decided not to mention the injury. Dean had to know that he was hurt, and anything shy of dismemberment was probably superficial for him, anyway.

"It's my place, too," Dean replied, before beginning to walk forward. His boots crunched on the gravel in the dirt road that led up to the house. "Never thought I'd see it again, honestly,"

"Isn't this the first place they're gonna look for us?" Sam asked, eyes on the piles and piles of rusting scrap and wrecked cars that surrounded Dean's childhood home. He remembered them. He'd played in all this stuff when he was much younger, cut up his hands and knees every day on jagged metal and broken glass. It was eerie to realize that Dean had done exactly the same thing, twenty years before Sam.

"Not necessarily," Dean replied. "Besides. This place is lousy with wards. Set most of 'em up myself." He looked down at Sam, and winked. "Which means I know how to get past them."

He carried Sam onto the porch, stopping in order to unlock the door and push it open without touching it. Everything inside the house was covered in a thick layer of soft gray dust. Some of the furniture looked like it might've been chewed by animals, but there was no sign of those animals now. Dust puffed up from every step that Dean took as he started up the stairs. He turned into one of the bedrooms. One twin bed, covered in a duvet that'd used to be navy blue, and one nightstand with a lamp on it. The ceiling sloped and the window looked out on the scrapyard.

"This is where I used to stay," Sam said as Dean tensed slightly and the dust swept itself off of the pillows and duvet.

"Yeah, this is my room," Dean told him. He set him down on the bed, gently. "Was, I mean." He fluffed up the pillows behind him. They smelled metallic. "You stay here. I'm gonna go see if I can find a first-aid kit."

"D'you really think I'd go anywhere? Even if I could?" Sam asked, shaking his head as Dean left. He turned his attention to the foot that had nearly been clawed off while they were running away. Three deep, messy furrows, from his ankles to the bases of his toes. Extremely bloody. His whole foot was covered, and the bottom of the leg of his jeans was soaked through. It'd probably been an acheri that'd gotten him; one of several varieties of clawed demons. (Or it could have been a daeva – no, it couldn't have, they were afraid of light and it'd been high afternoon when he and Dean had fled.)

He grimaced, more from how nasty the wound looked than from the pain of it. It reminded him that he didn't have a single pair of shoes with him. Or even socks – or even a change of clothes. He was worse off than the average teenage runaway, because they, at least, tended to throw a few things into a backpack before taking off.

The real weight of his situation was just beginning to settle on him when Dean came back, loaded down with at least eight different first-aid kits of varying size, shape, and recency. He dropped them all on the foot of the bed.

"Okay," he announced. "Between all of these, we should be able to find at least  _some_  stuff that's still useable."

Sam's foot was apparently the most pressing injury, because Dean took care of that first, cleaning it out thoroughly before slathering it with some kind of ointment and wrapping it up into a gauzy club. His hands were next. Sam had all but forgotten about them, but, admittedly, the scrapes were starting to look pretty bad ("What'd you do, take a belt sander to these?"). He got cream and gauze around his neck, to take care of the twenty or so superficial wounds that Gordon had inflicted while "testing" him. As for his face, Dean used bandages to tie on an instant cold pack everywhere he had swelling or bruising. Eye, forehead, jaw. The whole process took a while, and reminded Sam strangely of when he'd cleaned and bandaged all of Dean's injuries. Back when he'd still been strapped into that chair.

Finished, Dean put the depleted kits on the floor, then left again. Sam heard him open and close the basement door on the floor below. He returned in a few minutes, two dusty bottles of water in one hand and an equally-dusty box of Twinkies in the other. From the design on the box, it dated back to at least the nineties.

"Look, I brought you dinner," Dean announced, setting the water and the Twinkies down on the nightstand. Sam eyed them skeptically.

"Uh…how old are those?"

Dean glanced at them.

"Which one?"

 _"_ _Both_." Sam pushed himself up a little higher against the pillows.

"Oh. I, uh, don't actually know," Dean admitted. "But water never goes bad and these things – " He picked up the box of Twinkies and shook it. " – have a shelf life of, like, fifty years or something. So you're okay."

"That's disgusting," Sam said frankly. Dean sighed, putting the box back down and lowering himself onto the edge of the bed.

"Okay. Sam." Dean reached for one of his heavily-bandaged hands, gently taking it. "I'll get you real food later. But right now, I  _can't_  leave you. And you really need to eat. So you can take some painkillers." The protests that Sam immediately started formulating must have shown on his face, because Dean kept talking. "You need to eat so you can take some painkillers. You need to take painkillers so you can sleep. And you need to sleep so you can heal some of…" He gestured to, pretty much, Sam's entire body. "…this."

Sam huffed out an exasperated breath and shook his head, looking away. As much as he hated to admit it, Dean had a point. Despite the old wives' tale about having to stay awake if you had a concussion, sleep was probably the best thing for him right now, and he wouldn't be able to drop off without medication. The adrenaline was gone. All the pain had come back. The aching. The stinging, the throbbing, the nausea. He could probably manage a couple Twinkies even with the last one, though.

"Fine," he said after a while, looking back over at Dean. "I'll eat your Twinkies. Bet each one takes a year off my life, though."

A bottle and a half of water, three Twinkies, a mixed handful of aspirin, ibuprofen, and Tylenol. It all sat heavily in Sam's stomach after he finished, as he lay stretched out on the bed with two pillows cradling his skull. The top of his scalp touched the headboard. His heels hung off the end. The last time he'd slept in this bed had been before he hit his growth spurt.

"How you feeling there, Sammich?" Dean murmured, standing beside the bed and gently stroking Sam's hair.

"Better," Sam murmured back, drowsily. "Pain's starting to fade." He lifted his head, squinting at Dean before he pushed him back down. "'Sammich?'"

"Wanna get under the covers?" Ignoring the question, Dean put his free hand on the edge of the washed-out blue duvet. Sam shook his head back and forth, being careful not to dislodge the ice packs on his face. In the greater scheme of things, being called "Sammich" probably wasn't that big of a deal.

"No. 'M gross."

Dean snorted. "Well, you're gonna keep being gross until we can find a working shower, so get over it. The temperature drops hard out here at night, even this time of year, and I'd bet you dollars to doughnuts that the heater in this place is busted." He tugged at the duvet, made to lift Sam up. "Get under the covers before you freeze to death."

Instead of letting Dean manipulate him into bed, Sam groaned, and lifted a forearm in order to lay it over his eyes. Or, more accurately, one eye and one ice pack. Heater. Covers. The space heater in his bedroom, the piles of blankets on his bed. Home. Gordon's corpse. His cane. His winter coat. Dean's empty, useless cell. With the pain gone and nothing else that he could do to tend to his wounds and keep himself occupied, other things were floating to the surface.

"Ohhhhh, I'm so screwed," he groaned. Even though he was laying down, his heart felt like it was falling into his stomach.

"What the hell's wrong with you now?" Dean asked. He was starting to sound a little fed up, which Sam guessed he could understand. Dean was used to other demons. A fragile, emotional human, with inane needs like food and sleep, had to be as annoying as a goldfish that jumped out of its bowl every five minutes.

"I just…I…oh, my god. I'm done," Sam said, thoughts pouring out through numb lips. He lowered his arm, staring up at the cobwebs on the angled ceiling. They billowed every time he exhaled, impossibly delicate, but he didn't really see them. "There's nothing I can do. It's all over."

"Uh, okay, crazy." Dean sat down on the edge of the bed again. The springs of the mattress creaked. "You know I can't help you if I  _literally_  have no idea what you're talking about, right?"

Sam groaned again, closing his eye now. He was still sorting out his own thoughts.

"C'mon, Sam, use your words," Dean encouraged.

"I let you outta your cell," Sam burst out, finally. Maybe he could explain it now. "I slept with you. I gave you access to hunter lore – I let you read my books. I killed Gordon. I ran away. There are at least fifty demons combing over everything I know right now."

Dean was quiet for a few seconds.

"…so?" he asked tentatively.

"I killed a prominent hunter," Sam repeated. "I'm sure that he told everyone he could get ahold of that something weird was going on with me before he went up. Just in case he didn't come back from my cabin." Which he wouldn't. "I killed him. I murdered him. And then I ran off with a Knight of Hell."

"Well, he deserved it," Dean pointed out.

"That doesn't matter!" Sam replied. "D'you think they'll ask me for my side of the story? D'you think there'll be a trial? Of course not. The first one to find me'll be my judge, jury, and executioner." He put a hand over his mouth and spoke through it, voice muffled. "We don't just have all your demons coming after us. We've got half the hunting community, too – and the other half won't lift a finger to help us." He lowered his hand. "There's no going back."

"Nobody's gonna find you." Dean put a hand on his shoulder, rubbing comfortingly. "Nobody's gonna hurt you."

"I'm screwed," Sam replied dully, repeating himself from earlier.

"No…" Dean groaned, shifting his weight. He touched Sam's face now, stroking him gently. Trying to calm him down. "Don't do this again. Don't get yourself all panicky and worked up – that'll be the second time today. And you can't afford it right now. Not with how hurt you are."

"I don't have anything anymore," Sam replied. It must have been pain and exhaustion and little else that made tears sting at the backs of his eyes – even the one covered by a cold pack. "It's all gone."

"Hey." Dean leaned over. The sun was sinking, weird light slanting in through the grimy windows and throwing his fine features into shadow. Sam didn't realize what he was doing until he felt his full, soft lips. The kiss had the feeling of floating on his back in a perfectly-still pond, staring up at a cloud-dotted blue sky ringed by trees. It was soothing, in other words. Their mouths stayed closed, but Sam still tasted a hint of sulfur from Dean. He exhaled softly when he pulled away. "You've still got me."

Dean kissed him again. Sam didn't even have to ask for it, and he wondered how Dean had known that he wanted it. He opened his mouth, and a hot, wet tongue slid in. Filled him up. His body arched and his jaw moved, and a deep, needy moan rumbled out of the middle of his chest. Dean pulled away after that, giving him a chance to breathe.

"Dean," Sam panted. Dean brushed hair that'd gotten stuck to his cold packs out of his face.

"Yeah?" He kissed the tip of his nose. It tingled.

"You said that we were gonna make love again. After it was all over."

"Well, Sammy, I didn't know that you were gonna be so  _banged up_  when it was all over," Dean said, with a very short laugh. "I don't wanna hurt you."

"You won't," Sam reassured. He got his elbows under him, pushed himself up slightly. Dean put a hand on his chest, but didn't force him down. "I…I need this." He laughed himself, and it came out a little shaky. "Today was pretty bad, but it's been a rough couple of weeks. I just need to forget for a while. Before I go to sleep."

Dean studied him for a second, then moved his hand off of Sam's chest, putting it on his shoulder again instead.

"You thinking about that wraith kid again?" he asked. Sam sighed, closing his eye. "How long's that gonna bother you for?"

"I don't know." Of course Dean didn't understand human grief. Sam tried not to get too worked up over it. "Uh, forever, maybe."

"Yeah." Dean's voice was soft. He stroked his hand over Sam's bicep, down to the elbow. "You loved him."

Sam opened his eye again, disturbed. "Uh – "

"Like a  _little brother,_ pervball." Dean lightly smacked his arm with the back of his hand. "You were responsible for him. You feel like you should've protected him better. You blame yourself for what happened." He went back to stroking. "I might've been an only child, but I still get it."

"What d'you mean?" Sam asked, sinking back down.

"Well, I'd like to think that…" Dean hesitated, then continued. "That if I hadn't died in 'eighty seven. If I hadn't wound up under Cain's knife. Your dad still would've met my dad, and me, too. You were real little back then. Maybe, I coulda taken care of you." Sam opened his eye in time to see Dean looking blankly down at his legs. "Maybe I could've kept that wendigo from clawing you up."

Sam reached across his own chest and grabbed Dean's hand, holding it in his own bandaged one. After a second, Dean turned his attention back to him

"Sorry," he said, a note of apology in his voice. "Did I make it weird again?"

"No," Sam replied, shaking his head. Well, trying to, at least. It was kind of a hard gesture to make while lying down. "No, that's…that's kinda nice. To think about."

Dean gave his scraped-up hand a gentle squeeze, then shook his head, snorting softly as he slipped off the bed and started rummaging through the first-aid kits again. "You are damn lucky I've got a thing for sexy invalids. Nympho."

One of the kits, as it turned out, happened to have a tiny squeeze tube of lubricant in it. Or, well, Sam didn't really know exactly what it was, but it was slippery and didn't burn him, so he supposed it didn't really matter. Dean straddled him as he unzipped them both, tugging their jeans and boxers down around their thighs. Sam tilted his head back with a groan as Dean prepped him. He really had to work to get that first finger in.

"How the hell are you so tight?" Dean whispered. "I literally just did you this morning." Sam's cock, already half-erect, twitched as precome beaded on its swollen tip.

The bed was barely big enough for the two of them, and Dean had to keep adjusting his position so his knees wouldn't slip off the edge of the mattress. Sam held onto him, clumsily, and felt his fingers tighten to the point of his knuckles going white when Dean pushed into him. His strokes were languid, gentle. One blended into the next, like waves lapping on a beach. For a demon, the incarnation of violence and cruelty, Dean was surprisingly careful about the act of sex.

The light slowly faded outside, until Dean was fucking him in darkness dotted by the dregs of sunset. But "fucking" implied something a lot rougher than whatever this soft thing was, so Sam nixed it temporarily from his vocabulary. Dean was obviously going slow so as not to inflame any of his injuries. Sam was tempted to get himself off, but he couldn't do that with gauze wrapped around his palms. At least Dean was keeping his prostate almost constantly stimulated.

"How's your leg?" Dean murmured, just as Sam was starting to build to climax.

"How's your back?" Sam returned.

"Just a scratch. It'll heal in a few days." Dean moved his knees again. "Doesn't even hurt."

Sam came about a minute later. Just like everything else about this, it was slow. Drawn out. Powerful. He felt like all his worries, all of the toxic emotions of the day, were bubbling out of him. Definitely worth waiting for.

Dean pulled out of him while he was coming down and shot his load into a wad of tissues taken, once again, from the first-aid kits. Sam would have preferred for him to come inside of him, but it wasn't a big enough deal to complain about. He started to pull his boxers up, but Dean stopped him, cleaned him up, then did it himself. Sam let him put him under the covers when he was done. He felt warm and loose and half asleep.

Dean sat on the edge of the bed, which seemed to be turning into "his" place, and carded his fingers slowly through Sam's tangled hair. Night had fallen completely now. Laying down, Sam could only see the sky through the window. All the constellations. They were barely different from the ones he could see from his cabin, only slightly displaced.

"What d'we do now?" he asked. Dean's fingers stopped for a second, then kept going.

"Thought you were asleep," he said. "We…I don't know. We live. We keep moving. All around the world. I always wanted to go to Costa Rica. The Netherlands. Japan. New Zealand, maybe." He leaned over to look at Sam's face, since he was laying on his side and his back was to him. "Where d'you wanna go?"

"I'm not sure I can do that," Sam replied. "I've spent my whole life helping people. Being useful. I don't think I can just walk away from that." He turned his head to look up at Dean. "I don't wanna run forever, either."

"Well, I hate to break it to you, but that's kind of our only option," Dean pointed out. "They'll find us, eventually, if we stay in one place. Doesn't matter how good the wards are."

Sam licked his lips. "Tell me how to close the Gates of Hell."

"We can't do that," Dean replied immediately, shaking his head.

"I know." Sam looked out the window again. He knew he was being selfish (again), that Dean didn't want to talk about it. He didn't care. "Just tell me."

Dean was silent for a while. Sam assumed that he just wasn't going to talk. But then, all of a sudden, he said, "The first Trial is bathing in a hellhound's blood."

"Jesus," Sam said. He couldn't think of anything else to say to that.

"Wasn't that bad," Dean replied. "Thing ran over the top of me. I gutted it, and all the blood poured out. It was like oil that smelled like sulfur. Better than having it chew me open, I've gotta say."

"Sounds hard," Sam said.

"It was a real bitch," Dean agreed. "Next one was worse, though. Getting an innocent soul outta Hell."

"Oh my god," Sam said, lifting his head. "How did you - ?"

"Bribed a reaper," Dean replied. "He took me in through Purgatory. Which, by the way, is real, but it's full of monsters' souls. Not dead babies." He reached up to rub at his jaw. "Barely remember the guy I got out, to be honest."

"And what about the last one?" Sam pressed, turning his head to look over his shoulder. "The impossible one. The one you couldn't do."

Dean looked at him.

"You had to cure a demon," he said evenly. "Which, of course, is totally impossible. Can't be done. A soul can't heal, once it's gotten to that point. I think that I would've – what?" A noise had jumped, unintentionally, out of Sam. "What is it?" He swallowed. "Why're you looking at me like that?"

"'Cause I know how to do it," Sam replied.

"Know how to do  _what_?" Dean demanded. Something in his eyes had changed.

"Cure a demon." Sam started to sit up, beginning, "But I don't know if it w – "

"Jesus fucking  _Christ_ ," Dean interrupted. Loudly. His eyes, suddenly, went black. "And you didn't think that, maybe, this was important enough to tell me earlier?"

"Well, it's not like it ever came up!" Sam exclaimed, defensive. "You didn't even tell me what the third Trial was, so how was I supposed to know? And I told you, I don't even know for sure if it _works_  or not."

Dean was silent again, brooding. Staring at nothing with black eyes, chewing on his lower lip. Sam waited, working himself up into a sitting position.

"How?" Dean asked, finally. "How d'you do it?"

"I don't remember the whole ritual," Sam admitted, wishing he'd memorized it. "You take a demon into a church, I know that. Restrain it. And then you inject it with blood from a human who's, uh, 'purified' themselves?"

"Blood." Dean rubbed his hands over his face. When he took them away, his eyes were green again. "Yeah, it's always about blood." Before Sam could ask him to clarify that statement, he shook his head and continued. "Where's the rest of this ritual?"

"I wrote it down." Thank god for that. "It's…back in my cabin. Under my bed."

"Well." Dean cleared his throat, folding his arms over his chest. "We're gonna have to go get that."

"Yeah." Sam folded his hands tightly in his lap, staring down at them as he sucked his lower lip into his mouth. The bandages dug furrows into his palms.

"Hey." Sam glanced at Dean's hand when it landed on his shoulder and gave a comforting squeeze. "What's wrong with you? This is, like, what you've wanted to do since you learned I got turned into a Knight for trying to close the Gates. Why aren't you all excited?"

"I just…" Sam shook his head and sighed. It was like he was seventeen again, realizing that he'd have to stop hunting but couldn't go to college, like he'd always wanted to since he was twelve – because he was crippled and always would be. "I don't think I can do this, Dean. I thought these Trials were just actual rituals. Rare ingredients, candles, incantations…I didn't have any idea they were so  _demanding_. I mean, killing a hellhound? Springing a soul from Hell? I can't do that." He shook his head again. "On a good day, I can barely even walk. You had to carry me today because I kicked someone in the neck, basically. Those things would be impossible for me."

"You're talking about your leg," Dean guessed, standing up with his arms still folded over his chest. Sam nodded.

"Of course I am," he replied.

Dean reached down, and flipped the covers off of him completely with a fluid movement, exposing his legs. With the sheets and duvet all bunched up on one side of the bed, Dean crawled onto the foot. He pushed the leg of Sam's jeans up to his knee, putting his thin, scarred calf in his lap. He held it with both hands.

"I appreciate it, but it doesn't hurt right now," Sam told him. And it was going to take more than a massage to get him running on that thing.

"Welp, it's about to," Dean replied. Before Sam could ask just what the hell he meant by that, it felt like a white-hot, searing knife ripped through the damaged muscle of his leg. Scraped against the bone. Ran along the nerve.

Sam screamed his lungs empty. His entire body locked tight with agony, he tried to struggle away, to crawl to safety, but something held him in place. A telekinetic grip, most likely. He dropped back onto his pillows and convulsed. His muscles writhed in his leg. His skin crawled. The bones themselves creaked. Everything was pulling itself apart.

Fucking demon. "Rescuing" him from all the others just so he could fuck him and then have the pleasure of killing him himself. Ripping him to pieces from his useless leg up. Never should have trusted him.

It felt like forever, but in reality, the unbelievable agony, worse than the original wound, probably only lasted about five minutes. Sam thought – he was pretty sure he'd passed out at one point and then come to again. His throat was too raw to scream anymore as the pain started to fade. Dean let go of his leg and slid off the bed, but his own legs obviously didn't catch him like he'd been expecting them to. He hit the floor.  _Good_.

Sam heard him struggle back to his feet, hauling himself up using the bed. He stumbled over the side, and touched Sam's forehead. Sam grabbed his wrist so hard he felt the bones give a little, and opened his eye.

Dean was soaked with sweat. Trembling. Five shades paler than usual, which really made his freckles pop out. Blood had crept through the fabric of his shirt, probably from the wound on his back, to his front. His eyes were black. He was wincing when Sam first saw him, from having his wrist squeezed, but then he smiled weakly down at him.

"Regrowing muscles hurts like a son of a bitch, doesn't it?" he wheezed raspily.

Sam's grip on his wrist loosened. "What?"

"C'mon. Sit up." Dean gestured tiredly with his free hand. "Take a look at your leg."

Reluctantly, and very slowly, Sam sat up. He let go of Dean so that he could push himself. He looked down at his leg in the starlight, turning it to the side so that he could see his calf. There was no blood, no protruding bones or dangling strips of ragged flesh. None of the things he had expected.

Instead, the muscle was gently rounded out.  _Whole_. The skin was uniform, milk-colored in the silvery light. No trace of the heavy scarring that he'd looked at every day for years.

He touched it, movements almost dreamlike. He squeezed it. The muscles didn't spasm or cramp.

"I didn't know you could do this," Sam whispered. His eyes, for some reason, were burning.

"Yeah, well, neither did I." Dean was apparently too tired to keep standing; he collapsed onto the bed. Sam scooted to the side to make room, wrapping an arm around him so he wouldn't fall out. "Not without killing myself, at least. I'm almost burned out right now." He leaned, heavily, against Sam. "We're not really made to heal things other than ourselves."

"So that's how someone could kill you," Sam said. He laughed, feeling like he'd swallowed an entire tank of helium. "Just get you to heal something major, use up all your energy."

"Yeah, I guess," Dean replied. He yawned. "I'm gonna have to sleep."

"Okay." Sam was still touching his leg with his free hand. It was surreal, to run his fingertips over it and not have them fall into the craters and valleys formed by the scar tissue and the misshapen muscles. Dean, chin resting on his shoulder, watched him.

"It's still gonna be weak, since you haven't done a whole lot with it for so long," he said after a while. "But that's nothing that training can't fix, and the pain'll be gone. It'll be a lot more stable, too."

Sam turned, closing his eyes as he pressed his forehead against Dean's.

"Thank you," he whispered. It wasn't enough, he knew. Nothing would ever be enough for this.

He felt Dean smile, plump lips brushing against his own.

"So." Dean awkwardly wove their fingers together, his movements clumsy and tired. He must be exhausted. "You ready to save the world with me now?"

Sam laughed.

"D'you even have to ask me that?"


End file.
